By: Claudia Wysocky

Stargazing Love

Love is a fissure in the universe;
It eats at the fabric that holds the parts
In any form together. It shatters them in two.

It is a Peculiar Sin, what destroys.
The love said to be true is found in our own fear of ourselves,
Which uses us up and empties out our worlds.
Things are not at all how they appear,
and where were we before we were?
Love and Death—a pair of strange and dazzling lights.

Tho’ we have split, none but my eyes see it—
For if we once were one, must each be dead.
An unparalleled, brand new chemistry that
reaches out from the night and clings upon me,
And as long as I am here, I feel it say—
Return to me. Return to me.
I am not entirely, yet consumed by you.
I have survived you, have escaped you—
Continually.

Golden Sunrise, Dark Memories

Every morning I remember that things perhaps
May never be as they were in past—
For anything that might be seen, felt, or heard,
Is likely only but in my daydreams.
Standing in the shadow of unfathomable desire;
That which leaves so much hidden—
I gather my senses, yet still I cannot describe,
Nor’ do I realize that I am alive.
As the sun showers me in its incandescent rays:
I look up and to the sky in my pain,
Decades like hours, and all those dreams O’ ours,
Forgotten thoughts, and me: A corpse.

Happiness on Our Horizon

Our days are rush and race as though to a foregone conclusion;
Our thoughts betray us with an unspoken sense of despair,
For through the years our paths have drifted in a direction,
I cannot say—in one word or aspect I might beguile.
But why? Why should both our hearts yearn now so full and feel,
Why should the brightness of our future lean ever so far away?
—How, how can I dream now? And yet how do all men dream?
To dwell in dreams is not my ardent desire; The dream within me speaks otherwise.
The Dream of Turning back is mine; to look upon the moments of my life—
this memory accurateness of all for which I have lived—
Dreams are an extension of what we know, what we cannot tell;
And with their coming, so comes day.
A future so vivid and rich. The promise of what waits there for you.
Then at last the sea is so full—even the beast of burden,
Sits for a moment in the light of day.
The cracks that plague our soot-blackened pillars fade at touch.
Our will, our challenge, stands tall and upright; still has no answer—
On how we may escape this prison that we’ve created within.​
—Perhaps the time for us to shine has come.

The lost little boy

The moon, the moon, said the little boy in the moon,
the little boy in the moon
who sees the stories of everybody’s lives.
The moon, the moon, said the little boy in the moon,
the little boy in the moon,
who is watching all the people and their lives.
The moon, the moon, said the little boy in the moon,
the little boy in the moon,
who sees the world and sees all the people.
The moon, the moon, said the little boy in the moon,
the little boy in the moon,
who carries the world inside his heart.
The moon, the moon, said the little boy in the moon,
the little boy in the moon,
who sees the stories of everybody’s lives.
The moon, the moon, said the little boy in the moon,
the little boy in the moon,
who is watching all the people and their lives.
The moon, the moon, said the little boy in the moon,
the little boy in the moon,
who sees the world and sees all the people.
It is his way of reverse-boredom, of going through the motions.
He checks to see if anybody is watching him, checking to see
if anybody is playing a role in his story.
He skips through the hours.
He skips through the months.
He skips through the years.
He skips through the lifetimes.
He skips through the space between the past and the future.
It is his way of reverse-boredom, of going through the motions.
He covers his eyes when a person dies,
He opens his eyes when a person is born,
Life and Death, he says,
He created it.