As Darkness sways her regal skirt
to the dead’s drumming heartbeats,
I sit still entranced in silence until Being is
and all surroundings disappear.
Sea foam bubbles and kisses itself away in my ears –
the last remnants of the multitude storm
have no sway over the rock of protean lore.
The weathervane slightly oscillates
by the systole and diastole of breath,
reconciling lover and beloved
with the primal scent of lively opiates
in sightless search.
And to commensurate the sweetness
of honeydew, roses, and rosemary blends,
all dreams entorched wed the shadows
in the tireless dance of visceral cantus
and hedgehog air.
Listen to the imperious whisper forlorn,
crawling out the caskets of human ways age-worn.
Green lanthorns and ghost night
breathe out the briny breeze of archaic shores.
And in this Yuletide of watchful note,
curious feet walk in between
with itch, with love,
for the longing idyllic horror
of secrets most immemorial
and brilliant hope.
Every spring is a delirious dream,
a fever of singing birds beaking
at the ribcage of the shadow of death.
Every spring, the tales of old fall asleep
to the chiming of wishes
which nature is to defy
the will to apotheosis.
But every spring takes the edge
off the wine of misery.
At one point, no reflex will escape
the awareness and dance of the puppeteer –
being there but forethought
and synergy with the lower machinery.
Thus, every spring is but a glass of alchemy.
Be drunk! Be mad! – Never still.
For the road is long in the quest for eternity.
Neither there nor here –
dwelling in the inbetween where nothing is real,
yet it all lives and has its being.
Deem it a dream –
a heartbeat of torment perpetual.
It is madness viewed through the eyes of the eternal –
a foreign iconoclast so closely distant.
Dancing in the breeze like some aethereal sylph,
the heavens sing and the heart screams;
for the watcher has forgot to be human.