When the rivers rise
to meet where my words once fell and failed me,
so that the words can find balance in swimming.
When I can remain still and comfortably desperate at my desk to write,
in order to forgive myself of my wrongs.
When the day comes that I can finally move on,
from everything that I thought I was,
in a universe I constructed with balsa wood foundations
and houses made of sand castles of his ashes.
When the rivers finally rise to make mud of those ashes,
so that the sun can set the ashes to clay,
as a reminder that everything was real.
And when I can wake up to put a smile on, before deciding what to wear,
and he's still there.
When all of this...is, not dreamt
is when I can say I found the Ark that Noah built,
the one that saves us from ourselves.
The 'animals' were just an illusion.