Tuesday, May 01, 2007


What becomes of love when roses fade and birds migrate

beyond the realm of meaning,

subverted, staid and losing faith in the pleasure

of abandoning reason?

And what reason,

whereby all sober thought discarded in lust's flame

to serve beside raw passion

beats now within?

That order was swept away along with all censure

of rash and ill judged action

in hot days of flush youth when belief had words to say

the day is of small matter.

And what matter,

creating still days when time is abundant unable

to cease or stray from our life

traps now within?

The initial register of their quivering timbre

became a significant hush

as each immeasurable moment sequentially

stole forward all dawn through to dusk.

And the dusk,

like a rainbow ring arching into a cloud

startles colour to the eye,

does dance my

imagination chaotic, by upending sound

reason and trying

with constant attempt to straddle some powerful force

all shades of passion embrace.

And this embrace,

like youth’s fading light draws softly in darkness

quenching ardour by decay,

is nature's force.

The Heraclitan stream upon whose surface all thought

fixes logic and symbol

our world of flux creates, and which we seek to harness

events of this temporal

manifestation of unknowable order to,

as though it were dolmen stone.

But this stone,

riven deep into a wet rich clay of live cold earth

impervious to us all

holds no thought,

only the imprint all sequential moments that drew

each to the next have made known

before passing to fade like the rose and migratory bird.

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