Saturday, December 6, 2014

an apology for unseen music

I do not usually seek the seduction of
poetic force
wrapping my dim world in lighted poesy.
The world is much richer
without the Midas touch
of quicksilver words encasing
eternal beings.

I never mapped a cartograph
of those times we walked among
the lanes together
and fingered crumbling tombstones and the moldy rotting leaves,
our hands soldered together
with our fingertips,
sodden with the  dew of too-early mornings.

But perhaps there are mysteries in our past,
things too dangerous to be spoken of,
that still smart with such a strength,
our pens and tounges revolt,
and refuse to make a word
for moments that are best left
crystallized impermanently
in the grey limbo of Lethe's banks.

Or, perhaps--a theory more dangerous still--
nothing in each story is beyond the reach
of the light that creeps
from the dark horizon hills
into the womb of the waking world,
that slender, fundamental beam of light,
dismissing shadows as unnecessary,
that bathes the world in an eternal glow,
the generous, life-giving luminosity
that limits the edges of each dark shape.

It threatens, with a sweet, sharp edge,
to draw the petals into the
rose's center,
to break the adamant-like spell that
holds the tense buds apart,
to string the ring of roses round
the central orb
and anchor it there,
to bring all the distinct shapes
into union.

Where will I be?--
when the light has suffered nothing to remain dark.
Where will I remain?--
a creature suffused in shadow.
The light beckons me into something more
eternal than just an I,
the terror of its immanent demands
might break the bedrock of pride
that serves as my objectionable cornerstone.
Perhaps--a theory I can hardly
bring myself to bear--
it beckons me into
a We.

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