I. Antiphon
There
comes a point in time, when man must accept his limitations, and proceed to
take one step before the next, over mortal boundaries, unto sacred earth.
Saturn
watched
Paradox
of one
Ra gazed
Incandescence unto one
Mercury observed
Confection baked for one
Hypnagogic
ambience was but a vale away
When
a Psychopomp gestured capaciously
Amaurotic
visions darkened blur.
Grew
typhlotic as distance stirred
Cays
of dryads peak to view
As
a Simurgh came to me,
Instructing
I wake,
Believing
what’s felt despite unseen
A
merger, spanning time and space,
Unearthed
wonder, as an angel
Saw
a gateway to Utopia,
Deep
beneath the flaws and scars
Every
word, every page
The
emotions, the tides
Shifting
shape and size
Disbelief
dragged its chain
But
a pinch gently reminded
Of
the reality in possibilities
Astonished,
stunned
That
reciprocation was alive,
That
the first words of chapters new,
Had
been scribed; are focusing
Yet
fear—
Reincarnates
failures past,
Doubt—
Reinforces
each my lacks
Pessimism—
That
words so real
Must
have been spoken
Erroneously
still
Yet,
This
is when
Garuda
came
And
spoke to me
Of
you.
II.
Concomitance
Is
it possible for the purities of spirit to instinctively demand, those unlikely
origins to isochronally clasp each the other apparition by their hand?
Can
the synchronal ideations be cast aside, as simply the spawn of chance and eyes?
Or
can a case for fate be made, where kismet is positioned as a postulate,
therefore enabling dissemination’s spread, promulgating providential bliss?
III. Elusory of Preallusion
Divinity’s
dominion, sovereign’s soul, dictates prescience as the commodities of pagan
pageantry. Yet, as I’ve always pondered,
how one can blindly agree to things they cannot know. How can one discard the possibility of
oracles? I believe in us all, lays
dormant, a sense of the mystical, in which the governance is only as limiting
as the mind will permit upon its own capacity.
Everyone experiences scenarios, scenes, where definition will not
suffice, where explanation is as impossible to describe.
Leading
towards my own awakening,
I
began to see, something positive
Should
arrive, through the poetical
side
of self. A premonition, prior to
those
initial words, instructed that
circumstance
will alter and happiness
shall
return, to covet me completely.
And
so the creation of the poetical psyche was born
An
infinite quester was upon a search, for the elusive grail of verse. Directionless it wandered, dimensions vast
and wide, spreading declarations of imagery, to any and all who would listen,
yet still, even after its voice grew heard, emptiness pervaded verb. Wander more the spirit would, until through
thoroughfare its feet would arrive, upon a palace, where the electricity of the
flesh, sparked, as if this feeling it had never lost. Alive it grew, understood the premonition,
perhaps was not for inspiring the happiness of others, but for a joy to burgeon
back within.
Hours
would be spent, in contemplation of each term, the puzzles that the mind
creates, the ideology of mystic space.
Soon thereafter the psyche knew, it no longer had to stifle muse, and
like its favorite pet, the phoenix of the sky, the psyche fell that night,
purged of all it held to know, the form once taken grew ablaze, and quickly
each flame was snuffed to grave. But for
a moment, formless-in void, the spirit was reborn; now limitless is the extent
of its poetry.
Time
would blur the days from day, the hours from hour, the minutes away. Eventually it knew what must be done, it must
thank his muse, his source of inspiration.
And so, this is, exactly what the psyche did. Yet, little did it know back then, the
inspiration would become its friend, and teach together each they would, of the
every possibility in life through verse.
Sand
would sift, as it does, yet, one must wonder, where the course preplanned,
would direct. Reading pages from each
corner the world, the psyche learned much, understood in ways it had since
forgot. Yet in the palace he would see,
words distinct, as if each was patterned directly from the breath it
breathed. It wouldn’t walk too far the
plank, yet to acknowledge such would be to take, a piece away, from his belief
in poetry. But he’d learn, his
imagination, was in tune.
Now
everyday the psyche floats on air. Seeing
signs spring from everywhere. On
packages of chocolate bars, atop an old poster for a Jodi Foster film, from a
man, calling to his daughter, misbehaving, in the grocery lane, to a scary
movie star, it now only sees its muse face.
But strange as it may seem, in play of words, no longer does it see her
there, instead it rearranges each word round, and in subtle combinations of
space and sound, it now sees itself as within found.
IV. Every Good Play, Must Have A Song
Ivory
keys turn in note; sparkling symphonic tones it wrote, higher than a cloud
above, the music stirs emotive flow:
I’d
like to wear you like a talisman
To
keep me safe from harm
Hold
you to my heart
Listen
as the words sway
To
elocution’s presence found
I’d
like to hide you in an amulet
Protect
me from myself
Hold
you, upon my heart
As
the hours sift along
To
that lonely spot,
But
with you near,
This
distortion,
Will
never reappear
I
want to wear you like agate
And
fall asleep within your milky gaze
While
your chalcedonic curves
Elicit
the colored bands they make
V. Arousal, In the Land of Hades
Persephonic
Days
split
Between
Here,
And
the dreams
The
poppy instills
Every
instance
All
fragments of
Traverse
the numb
Every,
each
Thought
here now
Arouses
consciousness
Of
self.
The
poetry of life
Is
omnipresent
If
only we all choose to look
The
poetry of tomorrow
Resides,
in part,
With
the decisions we make today
The
poetry of the long ago
Sure,
it will echo,
Yet
only if you allow it in
The
poetry of the soul
Is
always on
Awake
or sleep,
It
may be quiet
Yet
if you listen
You’ll
hear it speak.
Seemingly,
since this poetry grew, from ghost-like fantasy, to a befriended reality, I’m
aroused always and evermore.
If
poetry could truly take a form…
