You say you embrace God
Your arms entwine emptiness
That distorting mirror
You call God
While you pray
Waiting only for your echo
Longing only for your immortal self
To come out of hiding
The stars are exploding
Forever
Prayer
Reply
Tag Archives: mysticism
In the unscrubbed mirror: Survey party, Mežitis
We may embark,
The long unknown before us,
Laden with our tools of discernment,
Our wish for precision
Set athwart us like
A burdened yoke,
But the path, though unseen,
Is well worn, after all.
The divine complaint
It’s easy for you,
A few winters’ discontent,
A bad summer
Here or there
Was that a tragic
Bend of history
You just navigated?
Those graveyards
Groaning with corpses,
Will soon be paved over.
Those shrieks will die away
Like the souls who bled them.
Even those eyes,
Those eyes, you won’t remember.
Do you find it difficult
To contemplate
The misery of your love,
My love?
You will die.
I will not.
The birth of time
My last post may have seemed rather a dismal prospect, so I felt the need to perk things up a bit. Hence this prequel.
Suddenly, there was suddenly
Suddenly one thing could follow the last
A great thumping cosmos hummed itself
Into being, bits of light chased and clumped
Into riots of color. Suddenly,
There could be succession, a rhythm.
There could be change and season
And the songs the winter writes for summer.
Then came memory, and all the love and loathing
To fill it til it spilled bursting
Into spinning clinging helical again
What was became was
How could I not be born?
I strode along Boulevards of grace-rimmed
Wonder, green-eyed raspberry wet
Racing, lapping my feet, my soul
The color of sweet melting kisses.
A swirl of endless life/death enticed about me
How kind to have this path so under me!
How clear to have such rhyming intense otherness
Calling all about!
I have these charts, these vectors,
This swollen ark to take me sailing.
Here comes a grandfather wind
All a-swoon!
The poet who sang at the end of time
The bland design falls, outward bound.
The swilling beast groans with cheap ecstasy,
Sometimes interior,
Sometimes superior.
What is exterior obliterates me
Until my fragile image asserts its wee voice,
Lost in a chorus
Of wee voices.
I know, I know, I am the only me,
The only conjunction of these points,
But how could you have failed to guide me
Through this hidden path?
Was I supposed to intuit mere chance?
As it is, I’m left to glide along
Waste-bound avenues,
Street grime the color of storm clouds,
Tipping into a middling redemption
Unawares, using old navigation charts,
Useless azimuths, discarded distances,
Captain of a bottomless vessel,
An occidental sailor upon oriental shores.
See there, where no destination lies.
A simple ending, no beyond, no before.
Not even a reason for despairing.
We’d mistaken the moon for a song.
exiles child 