To make,
To fashion is
To give appearance
To that which had existence
But not a life.
To make or fashion
A thing,
Is to simultaneously
Make or fashion
The maker.
The made
Is like the born
It will live amongst us
And alter our lives
In some or the other way.
The made
And the maker
Are of value
Not for the profits they supply
But for the stories they create.
Because when the made
And their makers are gone
All that is left behind
Is the memory
Of how things were.
When you leave…
Leave behind that part
Of yourself for me,
That was larger than
What photographs have captured;
Of greater dimensions than your physique-
Leave me with your immensities…
When you leave…
Allow me to move on
With the stories
Of your human-ness
So that I may
In my loss and vulnerability
Stand re-acquainted with my own…
When you leave…
Leave the door open
So that I can find you
In a space free of walls
And manufactured distances
Meet with me there…
Let’s get to know each other again.
Read between the lines
To know that every story
Is a tale of love or loss or achievement;
And like with everything
That is told or expressed
There is feeling…hope…intention
And a desire to be heard
And understood.
Sustenance for the individual
Depends on validation
And a pronouncement of self
In a world that can be cruel
In its ignorance of that
Which can’t be seen, heard or felt
Even if it occupies the same vastness
In which love and loss
Hope and despair
Everything and nothing
Coexist.
The story you must remember,
Is only that which you can at present-
Understand.
Wit. Wisdom. Wonder... 