Horizons Won

Here, one of each, and each of one;
Strings of crystals and water drops.
The space between the sky and stars;
A sinking Moon and swimming Sun.
To build without the touch of hand,
To see without vision’s burden,
Not to direct, but to create,
Not to construct, but yet to paint.
Every color in, every line gone.
Every sense blind, every sight true.
To leave body behind in faith,
To melt into ether and grace.
Here, one of each, and each of one;
Strands of timeless, silent thoughts.
To see how near we stand,
Violent shifting sands,
Illusions gone.
Visions drawn.
We are
One.

Diurnal

Not all light shines the same,
Some lay soft, warm suggestions,
And some cast cold, hard judgments.
But they all purge the darkness.
And what do we find there?
Nothing,
Save the invasion of perception.

Saving our deepest dreams,
And most ruthless nightmares,
For the blackest of nights;
It justifies the intrusion.
But what do we miss?
All those things, scattered.
Scattered by our gaze,
Forced into small pools
Of a once infinite ocean
Of shadows.

And what right have we?
We the diurnal tribe, the conquerors,
Who disturb this elegant peace,
And tear at the clothing of the night
To reveal its naked, white truth.
We have no right, none at all.
Nor do we find
What we’re looking for.
For to discern what treasure
That darkness holds,
Darkness one must become.

A Whisper

Do you believe,
that gods can bleed?
Have you seen enough,
to conceive of,
divine mortality?
What would it mean for us?
We who must develop love
Of vulnerability,
Of blood,
Of death.
All so we may draw
our final breath in peace,
with our minds,
and our dreams,
drifting
in the cosmic seas
of infinite night,
and lovely,
lonely starlight.

Like Wisps

Autumn was punctuated
by a sudden shower
Of icy, crystal clarity.

And so we drew
Into the sharp void
Of an honest winter.

The problem with lies is
they become so brittle when frozen.
Burdened with translucence.

A tendency to fall apart.
Not worth the effort,
Not keeping us warm.

We needed something that sizzled.
Something to warm our hands about,
some kind of fire or friction.

We found it in warfare,
but lost it in victory.
Too high, the stack of headstones.

The tall shadow and crisp air
caused desperate reflection;
Why were we here?

So we gave into stillness.
And then we saw it,
The Truth.

The flames were our prison.
The fields of blood, our keepers.
Our loss, our light.

We vanished.
Chased by winter winds,
Like wisps, into the night.