The Wake Of Illusory Love II

You let go …
And that’s how I know,
Because somewhere I read …
If you really love then it should be so.

Every night I’ll read from the memento,
So I get to keep you that way.
The void will be no more,
For I’ll fill it with all that there is to know.

Somewhere I heard that: when you end something – love is.
So with the death of us,
We can go beyond, that within the grip of our waking life.
That which probes the depths of eternity, that which is real – that which isn’t.


© Heath Muchena, 2012

A Street Lodge Down The Gorge

What we did behind…
The unlit, the blinds.
The seed we sowed,
Deep in that gorge.
Now I wonder…
If you went back to water it.
Do you think it grew or outgrew?
Did it die in the shadows of what we did?
Do you even remember…
What we did, what we were?
Or it was a dream I had?
What I saw when I closed my eyes?


© Heath Muchena, 2012

Dove In A Pigsty

A figure in one of the parallels,
Just another illusion – well crafted.
Like the stars that seem distant and at some levels,
The all combustible elements, that inside SELF – dwell collected.

To discover what is within is without,
The cure to doubt.
To die – To love,
To find in a pigsty, a dove.


© Heath Muchena, 2012


An empty room full of furniture,
Is like a mind filled with failure.
Just as a life of torture,
Lacks lovers and leisure.

A day without contact with a stranger,
Is like a couch covered in leather.
Though comfortable it may seem,
It’s just like a familiar dream.

So in my existence I measure,
Not the hard days of labour.
But the aimlessness that life renders,
And the gift of free will at my surrender.



© Heath Muchena, 2012