My bliss is not an arrow shot
to soar some distant span,
or some great tree whose roots extend
through realms of Earth and Man.
My earthbound bliss defies itself
and creeps into the breach,
its own fruition stultified,
bizarrely out of reach.
My bliss would not infect you with
the sickness in its cells.
Some days it wakes and sniffs itself–
and frowns at what it smells;
and though it keeps its spirits up
(as well they need abide),
some telling something in the eyes
belies the pain inside.
My bliss was bought at great expense;
its value should be great.
It touts its worth incessantly–
now other things must wait.
I view the thing as gilded gold,
then set my view aright;
for none should trust the things they see
when teardrops cloud their sight.
My bliss was long in coming
and I view the thing askance!
…For who’d foresee the need to give
the pain of joy a chance?!
Such things we deem inviolate
while avid on their trail,
and never guess some different face
could dwell beneath the veil.
I cannot give my bliss a home
or bid the thing adieu.
Intruder and invited, it
rings false yet somehow true.
Is bliss impure no bliss at all?
Of this I am aware:
My bliss remains an earthbound thing
until it’s bliss to share.