convincing, forgetful, like a soup.
the elegant demeanor of the twilight.
forged in sunrise. all together now.
an answer, incorrect.
corrected, wait. no.
feet. planted. look at me.
eyes. behold. the truth.
cast off, drifting out.
towards the sun, prose to solace.
so near and dear.
renewal. the grass.
of course, the clouds. the rain, of course.
false freedom, lost in righteousness.
renewal. soil to mud, dry to dirt.
not in light. in dark, where the eye opens within.
like sirens calling into an empty night, the bells ring and autumn brings a fresh candor to the skies of shelter.
the view is so subtle, yet so inflected with meaning: the vision of a hand, a pure white flower just furling beneath the soil, not quite ready to blossom into splendor.
as the sight remains seared into memory, time marches. and the soil begins to crack, and life begins to grow, and love, love is the reward. love is the horizon.
so goes onward, forward into the chaos of today. hate spewed in place of helplessness. irony in place of progress. beauty in place of truth.
but, alas, in great beauty, often lies truth. some find truth quite beautiful, even necessary. any smudge on its mirror is impossible. any chance of its splendor compromised is unbearable. words are true. sound is true. light is true. thus, as it has been said, perception is power. therein lies a life.
time tells that in fear the truth lies, sleeping soundly, but with the promise of day. in fear, chaos is still. in fear, we feel oppressed by a sudden sense of humility. in fear, we feel a desire for mercy. in fear, the delicate boundary between external and internal is clear. and there lies the power of fear. and love.
in a time of great trembling, the capacity to reach out, beyond the prison of self, is precious. to accept and ultimately transcend the profound loneliness of fear is to discover strength enough to know where our hands end and the sky begins. and maybe, when our fingers touch the same sky, we can truly feel the immensity of each other. and love.
at the last, the moment was near, in the kind stupor of a daydream, the night approached like a vindictive cousin redeeming malice with the blink of an eye.
i was considerate and rude all at once. kept on to the right. kept on to the left. kept on to the delight of the monstrosity that holds us all so dispassionately adverse to the reason of time.
the street was beneath the feet but the feet were beneath the hands that climbed every wall that rose to defeat the roses of lost time. the lost reason of time.
Take the time now, they said, walk freely, they said, towards the light where virtue belongs.
Neatly, I said.
I was wrong to be serious. I was a nudge in the face with an innocent smirk. I kept the stove lit, wondering, how, for what, when birds soar to such an infectious state of generosity, tumbling to a dissipating state where anchors ridge drudgingly down towards clouds neat like cards.
Now, I think the words are written long before the moon can insist on epic heroism.
Then, I did not presume a future so kind.
Just keep the tired troughs ticking, I thought. Word the methods and hold fast to the necessaries.
An avalanche of merriment, I trembled beneath my feet, flying among clouds of the tritest trope.
I remember galloping onward into the night, holding a lasso and thinking, oh my gosh, I can fly.
I was right. I really can fly.
in spite of, or rather, in furtherance of, the castles that give so much yet relent the spite of our own fallacies, we give back to the waters we know to be full. alas, the impoverished droughts of the desert can give no solace to the faceless crowds hoarding tiles like camels.
as the winds rise up and the storms rise, the silence is ghastly and pure. the light is fierce. the shadow tells the story of bright joy. but the shadow is dark. the shadow speaks in contrast knowing not how to portray such impossible glory.
but the shadow stays humble, stern in purpose, growing and glowing with the unknown delights of purity. we see nothing. we grasp and stumble and wilt before the undying powers that supersede our pitiable selves. caught in motion, tumbling, tumbling. towards and forwards.
unlike the virtuous luck of the prophets cascading down the serenading hills of yesteryear, the years of now are plenty and real with callous hands and distance. like the sunbelt of orion with the light diffusing towards the lack that licks the nape of love, there is a calibrated stance that gives pleasant idolatry a desperate flame.
falling towards like the butterfly kissing realms unknown before you. like the smile of the clouds with little to remove the words from the place. the only difference is presence. the absence digging in letting the chin know that unlike the past the present the future the now the now the now is now. as time gallops towards the last lake, giving romance the tired tumble of promise.
the honest eye of virtue cascading down towards the bottom of rain that supersedes the myth of intrusion. the poet in mind with hands like feet trembling down towards the rabbit hole with teeth of ivory and tusks of war.
delighting in so and so with the cowardly fear of the fox, feeling out towards the misty night without care and depth just like the sun. or what.
the coffee drips slowly down towards the mountain where we wait for the moon to fall so the day can begin. the smell so sweet and the anticipation warming the hearts of people as they sit. on rocks.
the horizon is near, he said, without fear. that’s impossible, he thought, with great fear.
like the staying air that broadsides the moon, in times of delight only forward do the sorrowful feet of fallen soldiers march towards infinity.
like pilots in the blinding black of night, these are the portly bellows of nature that dictate the ruin of our time. delighting in the misery of outsiders howling towards sunshine like vultures.
keeping the time. keeping the time.