until again

what color hides within the light of the moon?
what peace lies in the shapelessness of forever?
and when morning comes at last transcended,
what life descends the heavens to slowly die?

what rapture churns in misery’s wakefulness,
entranced in a light still hidden
and yet still mysteriously unknown and shrouded
by the color of the moon’s last echo—
rippling waters shadowed in forgetfulness—
of how simplicity grows in sanctity?

and glowing through eternity,
does it shake the whispered sessions
in the crimson of the pool?

what in sage remembrance borne
truly hangs despairingly still in thought
(though triumphant still in an ecstasy now broadened)?

and the humming of the muse astride
the trembling cloak of midnight
is wrapped in the moonlight’s shivering wonder.
it stills the morning’s wondrous glory,
opaquely shimmering and enfolding itself
in the transcendence of time.

how faultless does the morning lie in memory,
though bordered still by truthfulness,
and entranced in a lightness, hidden
by the significance of resplendent terror
and the sanctity of a screaming night.

fully sacred in these trials of doom,
when morning at last arrives,
what rapture churns in misery’s wakefulness?
and what peace lies in the shapelessness of forever,
that the colors of the light of the moon on high
become the granite facade of the weightlessness of time?

(original: January 6, 1991 ~ near An’-Nu’Ayriyah, Saudi Arabia)
(edit: January 14, 2010 ~ Sioux Falls, South Dakota, USA)

times.

and the way we change them.

sometimes it feels like this.

and yet, sometimes different.

so many complexities, or at least that’s what they seem to be. they’re really puerile, pedantic little things, so ultimately meaningless they deserve no attention at all.

i’ve tried so hard, for so long, to take the high road, i don’t really understand how i managed to let those who take the lower roads, pretending to be on higher roads than mine, drag me down.

sometimes, just moving with the music—swaying and letting the beat push through me—listening and feeling it in the grooves of my essence: these are higher orders of magnitude than the false dreams of the melancholy mythologies of half-dreamed ideals.

and it’s the same biochemical euphoria, but few seem to have noticed.

yes, it’s something different, where i’ve come to be.

. . . . . . .

times.

and the ways we are changed by them.

sometimes it feels like this.

and other times, it screams with the tension of all that is to come.

what so often i forget, is that the anticipation is the driving force of life.

but i have forgotten this for the last time.