Everything's AlrightApril 18, 2009
They slide past me, those colorful wisps of bright silence
No doubt embroiled in their own mires of crisis
But in the static of the hollow air, I find myself quivering
In what I hope is unique fear of no focus.
Dry fingers pester my temples, my clothes stand
As if driven by irregular blades from my inconsistent form.
The sky is that most terrible grey, which cries from the cosmos:
"You will understand nothing. There is nothing to understand."
Everything murmurs, everything rallies. The static is overwhelming,
The frenzy keeps on rising and buzzing with no pattern drones:
"... and then there's the chores, and then I have to eat,
And then there's my work, and the meetings, and if i have time, the sleep..."
Tension, banal, stifling and raw - like a spiral of birds to a flaming sky -
And suddenly, it thunders.
And everything's alright.
Down the WellOctober 17, 2009
Peering down instills the vertigo
That small men feel when they behold
A monolithic structure
Towering before them.
The fracturing lights
That spin, flower, and wither
Frame my descending path
By which I'll show the truth:
That this world is whole and real
As much as the one below.
Here is twisted, surely different
Yet nonetheless as pure.
And yet that Earth is there
And it certainly preceded
Our tiny, infinite garden
Of radiant, turbulent flight.
They will see, my children of dreams,
Their fathers and their futures.
And I shall show them, all is real:
As real as you can touch it.
A Newfound War
The champions abide for dusk on the waterside
Their eyes glowing with weariness
The shafts of wheat and the water's curl
Like no struggle tires them.
It is old, their conflict.
Older still than the sun -
Its birth had once surprised them
But they fear its death never will.
The sun kisses the horizon
The sky shines a liquid gold
Blades unsheath as the sky ignites;
A hole to the stars revealed.
After the roar it is quiet;
Black, silent and deep.
The warriors feel that by reaching
They can pluck a moon from its place.
Soon there starts a perfect tune
Like an endless blade coming free.
As the sun at last disappears
The gap's writhing border comes close.
The fighters stand in silence,
Their whirling weapons dormant.
By night the plants seemed vibrant
The river, like the sky, renewed.
For in all their years of battle
They'd never beheld that sky.
It's unending varied countenance
Softly bade them, "Onward."
The ancient blades met under
Redeemed and patient heavens.
October 17, 2009