Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Not Always True, But Often So.

And where do you belong? The questions peal.
And where is any passion that can seem
As tactile or as warm as morning's dream,
As laurelled as the autumn winds that seal
Dead ice upon the waters of your zeal?
As all the reds of evening drown and stream
Into the swamps and holes of night's regime,
You sense the grip, the tugging of the Real.

It pulls. There is no shelter on the rock,
No hand to guide your steps to any hatch
That might allow escape from who you are.
The night is poised, and panther-swift, will stalk
And strike. Be grateful, then, if you can catch,
Before that fatal eye-blink, one bright star.

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