The Rest is Nothing

It’s the art of moving on
I suppose.
An art it truly is,
Equal parts calculation, meditation
And luck
Wrapped up in a dance on the edge of Beachy Head.

When I leap, do I leap too high? Too far?
Not enough. 
Am I moving in its rhythm or simply performing in a chorus that 
Everyone wants to hear.
There are many who would kill to dance this dance.

The joy of moving, and trusting your shift,
Enjoying your pride and beaming as your past watches on,
Its daggers far out of reach now. 
Out of sight.

Something is heard and my old self
It wails and cries and it leaves, looking back
Begging me to run.
Danger, again, please let’s run.
Those beats in my ears filling with 
White noise. 
Something is heard and I hold my own hand.
No one else can.

Mine and mine alone, come my friend.
I’m not all knowing,
Nor any wiser than you
But if we must trust anything
Trust that the few extra sleeps have given us more time.
More time to feel,
And know
Simply that we don’t.

Knowing is not comfort
For in knowledge there is fact
And one never lay their head on a plush bed of fact. 
Never slept a wink on that cement.
Comfort is hope
And it’s intention.
Intention from your soul and its soul.

The soul can’t see the way forward 
It doesn’t know those facts your eyes brag about
It doesn’t claim to understand the words your brain feeds your lips.
If we must not know then let us be comfortable
With the blank page. 
If we were to fill these lines with ink
With our energy
Then there is no room for anything else
No room for your bed.

This day is not graded and there’s no failing.
When the day ends no one asks
No one cares.
It is our battle and our war for our sanity
Our growth
And our spirit.
What we have done is plenty.
We are alive, the rest is nothing.
We awoke and we tried in some form
And each day a different form takes.
That’s enough?

I’ll hold my own hand,
Come with me.
I am not all knowing
We will never know.
Leave the map and book with promise and theory
Leave the should, the would and the must.
Sleep within the journey, or waste on the dreary
Take a feeling soul and trust.

Published by R.T

Brit born and Canada bound, I run On Tuesdays, my poetry blog where I write weekly(ish) poems.

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