I look to you.
I look to you.
I look to you.
My words rise and fall,
pressured by weights too heavy.
When words fail
I look to you.
Let your word carry what I can't.
Your word pierces soul and spirit,
judging thoughts of the heart.
My words rise and fall.
Let your word carry what I can't.
Your word is alive and active,
turning darkness to light.
Your word is alive and active,
creating things not yet seen.
O wandering heart of mine,
I trace your tracks up this hill
but I do not see where you go.
Day and night you wander,
paying little heed to burnout.
Across all entrances and exits
you dash simultaneously,
drifting unreservedly.
I trace your movements
but only find traces
of questions you leave behind.
I cannot understand your tracks,
they are unimaginably complex.
I cannot number your steers,
they are infinite in number.
You disperse in prideful splendour
to flounder in collective shatter.
Your pride-filled ways mislead,
moving but going nowhere precise.
Your words are multi-minded,
yet you push to enforce your will.
You wail with outbursts of desire,
yet, en route your solo dash,
you desire nothing ultimately meaningful.
I wonder what it is about desire
that swivels within layers of layers.
I unfold and unfold but I find more layers.
I contemplate upon these layers
but I find unfolding questions.
Were I to put into words what I see,
I would remain stuck in a standstill.
Yet desire ravages on the inside,
yearning to be expressed.
I lay me down in silence
and stillness of thought.
I hold onto what I do not see.
I say to myself,
I will wait for you.
Emmanuel Johnson 
