We
fever the night, that long journey, flaming through winter snow; to favor your
heart, that dart of life, where falcons fawn; and what a dream, to receive
justice, a kiss through turmoil. Oh
for resurrection, the daunting measures, that green grass of the meadows—to
impassion this love, dauntless—to face the death, and gravid in sorrows—as if
shipwrecked, and bearing holy wounds, to pierce the blue skies. We love for
swans, the pressure of perfect, to remember an image—where teachers carry—both
daisies and tulips, unknown by the core; in which is Light, an object in words,
as reticent as the esoteric. We cry in joy, this indelible love, the nectar of
a heartbeat; to wish for mystic psychs the love of life—to wist the Paraclete;
and die this love, to rise this love, a brilliant Light to show forth. It
couldn’t be, for such as anger—to morph madly for mourning; but this is peril,
to suffocate dreams, where the self inverts; and this is death, to refuse to
breathe, and fain for perfect. Oh for
resurrection, the daunting measures, that beige grass of the meadows—where sons
trail, to meet the skies, to speak with our Sensei; that place for gold, the
art of secrets, the Kung Fu of intuition; and even this Tai Chi, the portrait
of minds, as nonplus as the Seven Wonders.
We know of Life, this awesome cave, and that awesome cloth; and
wherefore the night, a Fantast Mystic, the Phantom of our Salvation; to chime with
villains, and eat with scoundrels, as the forerunner of this faith. We rarely see it, the marble of our
precepts, the voltage of this faith; to die so gracefully, to witness the
tribunal, to be given wings; and God came, to comfort souls, The Dialogues of Job.
