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Decided to go out on a song. I will return again.

Mount Eerie /// What I actually Am

When I was sturdier I’d talk about how certainly we all will die.
Eat shadows, bury candles, die.
When I was sturdier I thought:
“So what? I am forever mountainous!”
I bravely said:
“No death of any kind could matter to my mountain mind!
Come years, come surging, I am tall!”
When I was “sturdier” I was secretly scared,
And the fear was blinding.
As you can see, I am no rock.
As you can see, in mountain wind
What I actually am is thinning clouds.

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Mount Eerie /// Who?

What do I want with my life now you’re gone?
I want your ghost gone.
What do I want with this wood now that it’s sawn?
I want the stump gone,
And the land it grew on
Oh Black Lagoon, you have my shoe
So I go shoeless.
I go muddy crawling through.
What do I want with my home now that I’m gone?
I want the shades drawn
And the overgrown lawn
I would gladly abandon a limb in the trap’s jaw,
Just as long as I crawl on
With no trapper to call on
Thorough and true, by stem and root,
I know no-one now
Now I say “who?”

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Mount Eerie /// My Heart is Not at Peace

If my heart were at peace
Would it be a blossom?
Or, satisfied, would it be a stone?
My heart is not at peace.
I woke up hungry.
There is wind but there’s no song.
 A satisfied heart,
Half sleeping through the days
In the wind, in the home.
If my heart were at peace
I would have closed the doors and windows.
Satisfaction feels like a tomb.
I was writhing in the tomb
My heart a frozen boulder
The “romance” and all I’d rejected
Comes like music on the wind.
The violence in my heart,
The stone in the mountain,
All destroyed by the burning wind
All revealed by the sweeping broom

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The possibility that if I stopped clapping
My hands in the void
I would notice that I can’t hold on to things
And the possibility that if I stopped using my voice
I’d notice songs that, all around me, sing
Looms in weather,
Lives buried in my days,
With all my songs and rhythms going like
The darkness surrounding a flame.

It’s what I don’t say with my mouth.
It’s my mouth open
To breathe in.
It’s open windows.

Still, I will go on and on describing the shape
Around the thing I want to but can not name,
In song
and, though my long life feels busy
and full of usefullness and drive,
I will sleep through every single dawn
and those I see I will not really understand.

I will sing through every single song
About the spaces left when we stop singing

and I will sing this with longing.