Empty eyes gazing at another part-time illusion,
dependant on your melting ego centre.
Listen, an owl keening, screaming about wisdom
finely defined by the unwise, a paradox!
You ask the question and find another in the arms
of a crimson Lady of Shallot, wilted and wafting,
floating down that river of one, she's calling softly,
babbling about life or something like that.
Finding in you another passionate pilgrim,
chasing something close to flight, first class
in the arms of security and determined denial.
I ride the dragon of reality, a great snake sliding
through fingers of wounded wraiths in song and legend.
Its all about being human at least
at best, godlike, invented by desperation.
and if you find your playground, invite me there.
Hand me your ball and show me how to play
your game of rules, thick and thin black lines,
white racers from left to right along some board,
for who inculcates and screws down
what should be some finite engraved ideal ?
This honour is no fantasy universe of smell and sight
or sound, and real dying is not some romantic hero
fading to a distance in your happy ending.
I see the wild light in the heat beneath your skin,
rumbling and clashing, pockets swooping with intensity
in mountains of Oh's, skin hardening at your touch,
a stone Midas! how can I be real in that raging
a storm of thrashing winds and whipping trees,
your snow and ice whispering about silence
cold still, and drifting against
only the flaming phoenix in my hair.
deb
April Y2K
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