Of Light

Away, without wonder,
this unwed dream,
yet stained in presence,
my mind’s sweet vision,
that in waking hours,
may shed brighter light,
to wonder in a fashion;
perhaps not directed
toward its final goal,
but unveiled, fervently,
and without remorse;
that such light shines,
undiluted, unhindered,
of its steadfast accord,
merely the base of reason,
while still playful, mimics,
upon borrowed memory;
amid the calling of day,
and in the way of light,
I wander upon this stage,
as catalyst to a dream,
that I may understand;
and with humble honor,
hold the stars above me,
stern, but ever joyfully,
their light in my grasp.

 

Unfolding

Holding her without regret,
yet with unwanted restraint,
I steal myself against her,
and her deluge of memories,
as they unfold to me,
and in submissive sorrow,
paint a picture of her life,
as I should have seen her,
as I should have known her,
as I should have been there,
as part of her renewal.

Kissing her without reason,
yet with my full intention,
I hold myself unto her lips,
and wash away her burden,
as she unfolds to me,
and in submissive hunger,
bear the weight of her breath,
as I must be reborn,
as I must now unfold,
as I must be for her,
as her reason to breathe.

 

The Man Who Died Of A Memory

Dark-clad in rags, a cloak of some past,
he finds his mind undone, his will unruled,
his soul turned inward to deep despair;
he is swept by a tide of melancholy,
despite the calm of  his surroundings,
aware only of a distant gull’s cry.

Stopping here, solitary in his wake,
he takes respite, momentary breathing,
aware, as he is, to the oncoming storm;
precluded in his vision of tranquility,
with labored, but ever hastening steps,
he bears through the wild of grasses.

With onset of twilight, he forges ahead,
alighting the gates of an abandoned villa,
buried in a hillside o’erlooking the sea;
stepping further, he arrives at the door,
attacks the wood, pounding irrevocably,
then stands alone, with heated breath.

An echoed silence from beyond the door,
the only response, in his waiting moments,
‘til a cracking echoes, and opens the door;
stepping inside, a dark and musty interior,
forlorn and unfettered realm, devoid of life,
yet, aired with a subtle fragrance of lilacs.

He stands alone, undisturbed and undone,
his gaze falls without purpose to the floor,
and as without morals, debases the wood;
standing like a broken statue in the dark,
unable to mend himself, unwilling to try,
he becomes as a fixture in the silent room.

His haggard brow throbs, incessant pain,
clenched fists squeeze life from his hands,
still, his senses deluged with want of her;
the familiar scent of her hair wafts in,
some vestige, perhaps, of his mourning,
yet, this scent invades him, not memory.

Her scent now fills the stale air about him,
accompanied by her lilting voice on a breeze,
e’en a trace of her breath washes o’er his mind;
for a moment heard, the lyric sighs of her ease,
while outside, the storm begins its dance
lashing rain at walls, lashing wind at doors,

But, his mind is now swept by another storm,
a more intense deluge of pervading emotions,
turning his spirit to one of sublime repose;
he thinks of Anjoli and restful days with her,
recalling every nuance of their shared passions,
then, with one last breath, he falls to final slumber.

 

I Remain

And into this moment’s edging,
a far grasp o’er warmed horizon,
a silence dwells, my silence here;
into this moment, fresh with light,
into this silence, where I now dwell.

And with my summer’s unfolding,
the burgeoning breath of my age,
to what time may leave unto me;
whether this moment be warrant,
or merely one of my displacement.

And when this moment drifts on,
replaced by the next instance of life,
there shall come fresher breathing;
for in each breath, ‘ere life abounds,
if not to breathe, but merely remain.

 

Into Dawn, I Wander

Into dawn, I wander,
tempered by age,
balanced by time;
in my time,
and into each dawn,
I have roamed before,
a precipice surpassed,
each dawn, in wonder,
each day renewed purpose.

Into morrow, this age,
to be the waking,
to breathe this life;
in this breath,
age o’ercomes,
tempered in its presence,
the strength of my years,
the breath of burdening,
where I am made complete.

Into age, this beauty,
this age well spent,
time in wandering;
for in this age,
there is beauty,
to each moment,
aware of its wonder,
this beauty borne,
this ancient wisdom known.

Into beauty, my life,
bestowed to me
in each moment;
beauty, solace,
and moments between,
reasons to wonder,
and for this beauty,
it is the reason why,
thus, into dawn, I wander.

 

Last Cry Before Dawn

Cry, that your voice be the wind,
pitiable tears, endless weeping,
cry all through the night,
and fill the dark with sorrow;
call out to the distant moon,
in restless, breathless tears,
and find your answer there,
within its strength of shadow,
wherein, there lay the tide,
bottomless well of memory,
ebbing far from conscience;
in that realm, may you cry,
release your burdened breath,
and weep within your solace;
for here, amid the waters fair,
cry, that your tears paint the seas,
and every tear-stained breath,
borne of your impassioned need,
holds me in its caress, in your cry,
that I may wash away your fears,
and wipe clean your final sorrow,
so you may be reborn, free of pain,
awakened to a new beginning.

 

Leviathan, The Whale

And of the sea, ‘neath deepining tide,
effervescent wake of blue and grey,
sacred plunge brought forth by gods;
and o’er the ocean’s crested waves,
where gulls cast but flecks of foam,
this leviathan rules kingdoms below.

Seething waters with fluent ease,
like great antediluvian shepherds,
guarding the blue gates of eternity;
and in their reign, e’en stars give way,
when, as a mountain charging forth,
the sea opens wide at leviathan’s rise.

Breaching the surface, evanescent,
a wave explodes, thunderous bellow,
then back into the depths of blue;
and here, where the world begins,
remnant of the age of monoliths,
majesty reigns, and leviathan dwells.

 

So As Not To Fall

With sheltered words,
and sheltered ways;
hold me now,
hold, dear, hold,
not tear asunder,
but merely hold,
as my words fail,
and e’en my breath,
too fragile to hold,
yet too o’erwhelmed,
dare I break in whisper.

These precious methods,
for precious means;
ease my brow,
ease, light, ease,
not loss of steadfast,
but merely ease,
as my breath falls,
and e’en my time,
too old to begin,
yet too far taken,
dare I fail, unanswered.

 

With Fallowed Heart

Hold now, still this one moment;
allow me breath to taste it,
scented with white fauna,
the dew of a summer morn,
pearls of water cling to life,
in the sweeping of a breeze,
fall upon my lips, unmade.

Hold now, fair this flora bow;
allow this hour left to me,
that sun may kiss my flesh,
and with its angered fire,
awaken this breath within,
to taste this moment’s pause,
and quench unrequited thirst.

Hold now, earth tempered stain;
allow parchment, so to write,
inked with bleeding rose stems,
where words fall as woven silk,
cast upon this sullen ground,
this prayer of peace for now,
then lay me to earthen rest.

 

An Interpretation Of The Universe

In our daily impressions
and ultimate realizations
of dreams unfolding,
as in ethereal works,
whether of unnatural
and man-made design,
or even in the very art
of the vast universe
and all of nature itself,
there is a symmetry of sorts;
conceptualized by providence,
remade by inherited worth,
so that untenured mortals,
such as unkindled we,
may come to realize,
or at the very least,
are then made aware
of the differences
between art and life;
yet never truly
to understand,
we find, instead,
a viable alternative
in the mere existence
of these treasures;
thus, within our dreams,
we see the future,
while, within a life,
we rewrite the past,
and, in so doing,
do we acknowledge
the beauty of nature,
therefore, preserve
the integrity of art,
and begin to conceive
that we are mere specks
of dust in the cosmos,
not to know our place
in the universe,
but to truly understand
our reason for being here…
perhaps, if only to fill a void.