Romanticism and PTSD

This is one small ever-encompassing
journey of pure discovery
and the absolute wonder of the world
has not even begun to begin enthralling me
beyond any sort of rational approach
there lingers a deep and bottomless
abyss of indescribable beauty
that holds me softly in it's grasp
and begs me to take a single breath
and to take a single breath again
and to take a single breath again
until I am overcome with life and the encroaching tragedy
of loosing the youth that is wonder
and the ever-present knowledge
that love of beauty is not innate.

Stillness

stalling time, suspended
between footsteps that never even attempt
to touch the ground
obvious lightening of gravity
and Earth's gentle smile
twisting ever upwards, ever
the true randomness of being suspended
mid-air, between

Oh, I touch your face
and the physical universe descends into irrelevancy
a cloud lit sky unveils itself to me
the truest beauty, raw
the bright lightness of right here
moment
being

Oh, I touch your face
and fall beyond direction
into the pureness of neurons firing
beyond
any
fragments
of control