Undefined

There is something at the rim of the universe . . .
a sound of forgiveness or                  
                    a fog of music through which
a vision of spheres dance       
                             beyond the endless stars
breathing deeply of creation;                       
                     the tapestry explodes with
                      energy flying through the underside
                                                     of forever . .
a sign is given of grace
and things yet to be revealed as           
                                                      reflection . . .
the mote in my eye
                                        is an angel dancing
through sheets of salt . . .                          
skating, swirling, leaping . ..  undulating
                          weaving in and out of rippling skies;
formless, the uncreated are rebirthed                               
                                                                   as wingless beasts crawling through                                   
                                                                      the mud of a seamless landscape . ..
                                                                                       seeking a lost pearl . . . an elusive
                                                                         iridescent flow of hope . . .                        
                                                                                      yet their greed commands them,
                                                                            bubbling up through the murk and filth . . .
                                                                       and thus they lose vision
                                                                                                                 of a beauty . .
                                                                                   forming an aching arch of stillness
                                                                                   an undefined spectrum                                       
                                                                                     around a wounded moon . ..
                                                                                they lose sight of the given,                             
                                                                                   chasing after the forsaken . . .
                                                                               and the sound of music
                                            rattles the bones           
                                                                              of a yet unformed world . .

Something Died

 Something died
and nobody cared,
a shroud of flies gathered
and nothing washed the body.

It lay silently

 without sweet incense

rising like a prayer;

or flowers weeping tender

petals,

silently turning

into cries of desperation
it was an end of something

an era . . . or a dream . .
and hope flew away on
wings of steel blades . ..
each stroke a slash
on a stilling heart;

dark red were the skies

where

crystal drops

of silent tears 

were

falling, falling

 

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