Footsteps have trodden through avenues sundry. And by the carefully nurtured flame where the master’s trail has fallen, I often wonder why life’s elixir rides on the centaur’s toxin.
The crepuscular light daily sets the stage for a new pilgrimage past the mouth of Abyss into the throne of a Black Sun, which abrasive sublime rays sear away the confusion of the day; although it may as well strip the heart off desire bent after object and natural course and edge. Here in the darkness does reason bathe in purity, and conviction’s resolve illuminates the beclouded use of breath and focused target.
Donning the crown of the depths, there is no escape from the timeless folly. The frolic of pretence enrobes and weds the conscious insanity, and the tarred alchemical tears are, each one, a perforating spear from the pilgrim’s reflective pool of inanity.
Dawn is the archetypal succour for the children of the golden orb, whilst in its embrace the offspring of chimerical antics run erratic, in pain writhing, under the blistering light of consensual literacy.
Somewhere amidst these cubicles, the mind has thought to bemuse itself with the sole indulgence of being.
The flower garden trickles from the eaves of a long forgotten rain sit as the frozen dry buds slowly smile to greet the sun.
Out the window, the swaying branches invite the wonder of late spring, and for the first time, its brightness is a gift.
Here, sheltered by the unknown pages of the library, blossoms life where many had walked putrified.