I don’t do prose, poetry, or song.
Not even on free beer and open mic night.
At church, people move away when I sing.
But I’ll give it a shot.
I can’t bring you sunlight.
You can’t taste tasteless water.
Or discern greenie blue from bluey green.
We don’t have our drinks for long.
Or the fire that alcohol brings.
You can’t hold the infinite.
Or can you?
The only place I have,
Is space between my ears.
The only thing you have,
Are the echos of what has been.
We keep words, concepts and meanings,
To quantify all of I/You am/are.
Do we hold the infinite?
We do, within limits,