There is no maybe, no almost, no might.
You either love or you lack love.
Everything in-between is running from truth.”
and your arms were all about me
like spring clouds soft and grey
and fat with rain milked from
fountains of the morning dew.
I woke, and there was nothing,
nothing but you…you in my heart,
in my thoughts, you like tides
in my veins.
Here’s what clashes inside me,
like tides and beaches under skies,
clanging loud and clear against crags
midst thunder and silky lightening:
I used to have everything anyone said
was required to be happy and content and yet
I was in despair
for there was nothing of me inside and yet
somehow I was there,
a mute witness to the horror of myself and full
of one long interminable silent scream…And now? Now I have lost it all
(except you, dearest one)
and yet gained myself within
and thus find joy unspeakable
midst this storm of tears,
clash of times and loss
of all (even my fears)
and utter failure…
Now I sit in deserts dry
(no oasis in this barren land,
that oasis is become me),
I sit still midst salt and sand
and snakes and smile, because I am
become a meadow here inside,
and poppies dance beneath the breeze
and sway in purple twilight ways,
in this velvet twilight, mmmmm
this twilight in lavender
— | René Magritte, speaking about his piece, “The Son of Man” |