Let Rest the Apparition
1.
A raindrop sits on a curl of his hair.
His eyes focus forward, faintly
drifting to me occasionally.
There is a mystery unfolding
in the third one created here,
revealed to us by ourselves
when our eyes are ripe to see it.
We are a product of convergence,
a moment of polaritiy's presence
falling away
like this...
A small hint of nakedness
underneath the weight
of ghosts ready to go home,
Transformation traversing
through the margin of space-
illusion-distance between,
Culturing, cultivating,
making ready for what waits
in the crisp clarity,
fresh and present,
always when the shadows
finally fade from the light
centered at high noon.
2.
The dream is pinching
the thread unraveling
at the place where we wish
to follow it.
I reach,
beauty building bridges
who serve only as long
as it takes to get us
out of the lie.
The only pain
is the echo of what does not exist
when we hold fast to it anyway
praying for surrender,
Burying ourselves
under the wreckage
only to cough up the dust
from disintigrated false selves.
We come before each other
with some dirt left to wash,
and parts polished - peaceful
paying for release by letting go
of past-reflecting poltergeists
so long companions.
A new prize - vacancy sign
posted where the light fills the hole:
Welcome,
You are in the vicinity of home.
Copyright 2010
A raindrop sits on a curl of his hair.
His eyes focus forward, faintly
drifting to me occasionally.
There is a mystery unfolding
in the third one created here,
revealed to us by ourselves
when our eyes are ripe to see it.
We are a product of convergence,
a moment of polaritiy's presence
falling away
like this...
A small hint of nakedness
underneath the weight
of ghosts ready to go home,
Transformation traversing
through the margin of space-
illusion-distance between,
Culturing, cultivating,
making ready for what waits
in the crisp clarity,
fresh and present,
always when the shadows
finally fade from the light
centered at high noon.
2.
The dream is pinching
the thread unraveling
at the place where we wish
to follow it.
I reach,
beauty building bridges
who serve only as long
as it takes to get us
out of the lie.
The only pain
is the echo of what does not exist
when we hold fast to it anyway
praying for surrender,
Burying ourselves
under the wreckage
only to cough up the dust
from disintigrated false selves.
We come before each other
with some dirt left to wash,
and parts polished - peaceful
paying for release by letting go
of past-reflecting poltergeists
so long companions.
A new prize - vacancy sign
posted where the light fills the hole:
Welcome,
You are in the vicinity of home.
Copyright 2010