Trunk of Veils

Lately I have not wept
for the usual things:
but for the cave
behind the waterfall,
the trunk of veils
behind the veil.

With the
smoothing-stone
of routine
I have glossed
myself over.

I weep
for the tunnel
laid in stone.
My sides
constantly scraping
as I near
the clearing.

To think
I had achieved wasting!
Look at me now, ma:
stranded sans passion,
poor, purposeless,
stuck in the wasteland.

Is it lazy
to blame the assembly
for failing to assemble?
It feels as if life
has ceased to give life.

It was not enough
to win a heart
and continue winning
in whatever manner
I knew how,
whatever back-handed
back-alley back-walled
way possible to me.
How did I become so
mathematical,
to think this all so linear?

Walking along the beach
with only my feet submerged
in the surf, I know myself best
and think to throw myself in.

Yet to keep the salt from my tongue
I continue walking, sometimes running,
always in the same direction,
and I wonder too often if my cowardice
stems solely from my inaction,
or the half-hearted manner in which
I only move towards what is in front
of me, half-ocean, half-sand,
stretching for seemingly a lifetime.