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the sky end of me

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  • the sky end of me

    I look up into the stars at night,
    I cannot conceive of any enemy.
    Like lanterns burnt into memory,
    Like the way light travels to you
    Easy as lightning or sin, the tongue
    Speaks the words I once forgot.
    I remember the beauty, it breaks,
    I remember the distance in a look.
    From the stars I watch at night,
    I can count on you to always be there;
    And I'll always wonder, do you hear
    My wondering as it gushes a fountain
    Made to echo, and catch its own tail?

    Fear, where do you drive me,
    Were you ever a friend to suppose
    Separating would be better?
    I know to live you had to forget,
    And I can even tell your story
    Past the bastion of the fortress walls
    Guarding the floating castle.
    Past the fashion of a swollen head:
    Over the clouds, a broken rainbow.
    The swollen head no longer dances,
    And the dripping silence behind it stalls.

    There's the blue one, many-armed,
    Too many eyes; so many I lost count.
    I can watch you dance, embossed,
    I can feel the Universe sigh in my arms.
    While I'm perfectly shaped, made
    To contour these comfortable problems
    To stay inside the lines I'm drawing.
    Paradox of Flesh without an Idea,--
    Listening to the hammering in of nails,
    While I dream of a forever silent being.
    Where the strength of words fails.

    It is as simple as that: That love make
    Faces in the mirror for it to freeze,
    Behind the coldness of the silver,
    Where the Future hooks into itself again
    And I fall into a trance, looking,
    Making to describe the ink-filled sky,
    Droplets of rain covering my home,
    My being more than anything small,
    To know the value of an inch, a mile.
    Might you swear by the words used,
    Without the need for any further trial?

    So that was it, what led to it was this, an unbecoming. The mind plays tricks, and within it play the fawns. We fight over thin air. We'd rather be Wrong. What does it matter that the abstract noun Love we misused? When words completely fail us. Maybe that is why I didn't make it through ... I took pity upon myself, and became a self-enshrining god. A little god no larger than my visible form. I came to you, and became as a bane, where the fruit withered, above the sound of your distant voice.
    I can call up the demons, and speak perfectly; I can stand next to you, and pray that nothing's wrong. Why are we so mad? That is what I would want to ask. Because I toe the line. It shows I am alive.

    The one who never peers into the mirror Can never know his shapeless shape. When you pile gaze upon gaze, and cover it with flesh, to let it walk upright amongst the world. When you believe. You tower above, all choice, sound and movement. You are lovely. Such colors, such forgetting.
    He cannot look into his own face, however.
    See how you two were separated.
    There are more than only these two. Always.

    I listen to the liquid wilderness melt,
    I listen to your voice creep up my spine, open book, in a chill. You unravel your wings, dipped in blood, the blood of whom you were. This is the precipice, the daunting image: Choice, made visible, to speak of empty rooms, library-silence.
    No face to forget, however; because you no longer search for it. I pray. I pray to never forget. To be able to always receive, and more than that, learn giving. Unlearn thought. Become being. I am danced across this living stage.
    My flesh is lightning which won't catch fire, but my breath is so complete, made of the fire I missed. My breath, a long kiss in the darkness, mouth-to-mouth with my fervent being. In prayer I give myself away. As is wonted. In prayer I give eternal thanks. Because I'm not perfect. There is this amelioration, however. I am still haunted, but it is with you. Your Eternity. I'm not perfect, but you certainly are.

    Let me gain, and grow, my own voice calls to itself. How do I make it impossible? I know the words, and the clear Law. I know how we suddenly break, to know the star-storms, and quakes high in space. How the light shows eternally play.
    "The aeon is a child at play with colorful balls."
    How the dreamers gather into bunches, into knots, where the preening forms distance from the Form: and this is more to grow, rather than revel in separation.
    There is a silent knowing. A rhythm which returns.
    My face I've memorized. Are you the lie, or am I? And whom should I tell, for some things are better kept with God. Let God keep me. God almighty.

    Burn me in the fire of Separating. Make me crave what you are, and I shall be possessed with the spirit of the Living. The dead all gathered round From the otherside. Gather my senses and my wit, and the useless baggage. Writing poetry to God.
    About the faces which deserve to be close. About the fire on the breath, in the inferno of God's raging heart. Come, come and allow the breathlessness to work upon you. While the flesh still works.
    In the waving movie before my very eyes You'll disappear and this is no cause for alarm. For you are eternity, and All. Like a blessing, the spiritual bread. Servant to Life.
    Made to blossom before you, petal by petal, enlivened.
    Made to scratch into my being Your name.
    God. Writ upon all the temple doors, and the ceilings and the floor: God, who stands above the sky With scales moving me up and down.
    Because you were more than words could describe, but they had to do. Because you & now is Forever.

    A spiritual fire which endlessly burns. It produces no light. What use has fire of Memory? There's water for that. Water puts out fire. Earth is Full of fire. Air and earth are separate. So it seems to me.
    A spiritual production. I shall not put my prayer into the wrong ear. Let God know. Tell God now.
    Because that Face is many-eyed, and has three mouths which speak. To talk of unspeakable things. It is here to remind me of the odds. The way the mystery weighs more, always. It is here to blossom forth from the spiritual rights: a fire which gives no light, dark-fire. It burns inside everything. What does it matter? This silent play of being. Would we ever get to the point? I need to consolidate, to understand this Prayer.
    To set things where they belong, within their rightful place. How we can become so seduced, how we can become so repulsed. Hell knocks on the window with its Scratching limbs. Hell writes its bible automatically, in self-nourishment. Hell feeds itself with Dead souls.
    Last edited by amenOra; 10-24-2017, 04:58 PM.

  • #2
    The four initial stanzas are a rich repast; the following paragraphs make me wonder at the profusion of ideas and imagery that teems in you. Each sentence could be the catalyst of a whole poem. It's like a chest full of curious objets

    Comment


    • amenOra
      amenOra commented
      Editing a comment
      Thank you. Did you notice the semi-structure, in that the end of each of the 4 stanzas had the same similar rhyme- Where there is "stalls" now, used to be "trails". But someone moving and silence trailing behind Doesn't quite work for me. Stalls is slant, rhyme, I believe.

      It was a little more attention paid to structure. Thank you for the comments. Taken by inspiration, gladly

    • grant hayes
      grant hayes commented
      Editing a comment
      I confess, I did not notice the last-word near-rhymes. Thank you for pointing it out; it adds to the flavour.
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