Terror forms an opinion,
makes hostile urges a martyr.
One does not survive without tranquil
adherence to a subtle light:
The sanctity of each moment,
its own death assured,
Our escape, a chance or loomed in fate
as all horizons burn dusky,
And we hold onto one another to remain
moored to sanity,
Time’s anti-thesis, healing rather than
Fear is self-hatred,
a barking delusion
Quieted in a breath, away
“I raised my head. The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky — seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.”
–Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
The stars are spurious,
Lights out of sync with the hours
That slip through my momentous hands:
Perfect moments hide their ambitions,
wipe away the connections
between breath and life;
taken from me . . .
I decided, only, to walk this valley
Enfolded within these dawning ruminations
Without seeing . . .
“That sliver of moon broke through.”
Hope smiles out from imperfect guises.
I recall now
ripple of fate.
On the greyest days,
each draw of breath seems inadequate to living.
Waiting for air becomes an excruciating task.
The suffering commensurate to this world
is only tragic because of its beauty,
the symmetry of birth and death,
of joy and misery,
hunger and stillness.
I try to loosen my grasp then,
for what feels full is the most bereft
if it traps you there, preserved,
time that we hold sovereign.
every mystery peaking at dusk.
who we love, not only desire.
Immense, untrammeled spaces
tell us nothing: what is, was,
may yet be.
My world wraps tightly around me.
When all the shadows flee their markers
and your only fear is of standing still,
the tired roads relent: dust and parting.
The whole world becomes the only path . . .
Do not doubt yourself (as they do),
for that rope will slip around your defenses
but won’t catch you flying . . .
I envy those who love,
Have contempt for those who love me.
. . . joy, aloof as the horizon.
Me my my me my.
Introversion empties into
Nowhere . . .
Your fox is not so clever as he looks:
He’ll only get as far as drowning in the brook,
And when you lose your vested schemes
In that harsh-light-of-day stream
You’ll wish you had even one buoyant belief.