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.
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.
Largely undecided, A blue moon grew Rising to the east beside us. And who knew The truth confided behind cloudy blooms, This night, in June, Shyly hiding, Inside the icy blush of pensive silence. Too soon, Our goodbyes, Consumed the empty skies.
If you asked me Where lays my pride I’d say in a grave Next to my lies. If you asked me How were my days I’d say nearly all Were painfully dull. If you asked me Where it went wrong I’d say that my fall Began in my skull. If you asked me Where went my dreams I’d say, with a breeze, They were strangled by me.
The specter was flattered By all who had gathered. The witnesses staggered! Their hearts were in tatters, They moaned with a clatter, As their lives were shattered. And laughter, The clever crafter, Hung from the rafters, Pale ever-after.
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.