Love

I have accepted death, disease, trepidation, and trials,
as constants of life and thereafter,
swallowed my words and put my best foot forward,
but do not completely grasp their constants.
I have yet to move through the mud encrusted veneer
of time's shackles.
I have not made haste in accomplishing great goals,
in the face of what in my own opinion is the unknown,
the fluid,
the ever after.
Yet, that sickle waits for me, hanging high,
and I make no moves to dodge it.
I make no footholds in mountains, or strive to reach mountaintops,
I just remain as moss on this rock below my feet.
I remain as rain water, to lay stagnant until I'm recycled to the earth.
And all those times I wait, in deafening silence,
making no moves forward or backward,
no choices in Robert Frost's wood.
As the tall pine stands,
rooted and unwilling to leave,
I have accepted all punishments that follow
a man unwilling to reach past the circumstance that has placed him here.
I've become a heart unwilling to fit the pieces back together,
a room with no light,
a night without dawn.

For I have died, because I refuse to live,
as an artistic statement,
as a lack of reason,
as a moment of clarity,
as only half of the whole.