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Wednesday, November 11, 2015

The taste of pallor 11/11/15

The cathedral, as a state of mind,
once filled with the warmth of an underground fire
always ablaze set against an aloof but reflecting distant sky,
had birthed many moments forged into sacred memory,
instilled and deep running as veins of ecstasy,
thirst feeding and love quenching,
beyond dimensions that desire could acclaim.
This as aftermath, has fallen from perception’s grace,
as if centuries have come and gone before my mind’s eyes.
Barren is the view and flat faced are the distortions
that come to greet me.
It is a posed place, transfixed as deep welling
and source-driven still, to be that now,
yet vacant of this initial sanctified animation.
It is weathered and distraught of presentation.
It finds me aged and removed from the grace
and the feel that permeates now, as haunts as if of denial.
It has the fate to speak in backlash terms
as if eternity does not last forever,
to sense as askance and retort with banter
what I thought and felt
as the deep-land home of the heart, now doubtful.
I, as child of me, caught in the first person,
dashes across my mind pleading for images
to represent what once was,
while an aged me looks on this knowing,
this inventiveness as an enterprise of life
that teases me with richness claimed
but vastly tempered by a view in wanton notions
for original sources and remembered revelations.
Now, that now, faded into memories,
that now dwells in vacancy
and the stark dryness of timber
and the preoccupying bountifulness of cajoles.
Barren in the dance that transfixes this
and vacant are the sounds
that would levitate these moments
vastly past their initial and lucid prime.
I go down to the bone on this,
featured with dust and cracks,
devoid of moisture and aliveness.
History, for what its worth, has strong accounts
that provide for this distance and demise in muddledom.
Yet here I stand, facing a lightness of being
with no eternal celebration to express its delight.
I am only a view, at the ending of distinction,
as if the sun setting to a gloomy pallid sky,
the last of the flicker, the death of the flame.
No account will save the story into an eternal now.
The cathedral is but a canyon laid bare
from blessed water that carved
its facial substance into life.
Yet seeds will come, vegetation will take its place
and my eyes will rest upon what once was.
The taste of pallor, genuine, does it matter?
It is a now, clouded and unknown

but defiantly in its going forward . . .

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