oh to weep
to feel the tears, gliding
the joy that is a chasm
of painful knowledge,
the dark heart of
recognition
to gaze into the
eyes of suffering
and see its immense love for you
to peer into ecstasy,
become… fully…
cognizant…
of its ambivalence
to gasp and choke
on crumbs of empty space
to burn with hunger
at the brimful table of eternity;
the hall is so large,
the table so long, that
the head chair sits far,
outside the kingdom…
the queen is, by definition,
in permanent exile
her hound sounds
a trumpet of returning,
to the entrance,
where all exits
meet in a hollow nexus
its howling pierces stars
and summons perception
a doleful remembering
of cheer, unborn
a triumphant, vigorous celebration
on stages of victory,
a victory that needed
to do nothing but roll out of bed
and put on pants…
the rest was a seamless
unfolding of breath and
muscle memory
thick troubles,
shaped from
thin dust
and triumph,
collected in buckets;
it falls nightly…
no requisite asking,
pleading with fate,
to set aside its sickle
but for an hour
no prayers ascend
all prayers ascend
trouble no more for joys,
imagined leprosies that they are
sing no more praises of defeats
leaden, decrepit bullion
all these… fancies
dancing echoes
there are but few
frail glimpses
and each,
its own
meaningless
useless
miracle
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
https://trentboswell.blogspot.com/
https://www.patreon.com/magus72
