These are the words that write themselves,
phrases struck in steel
and driven into me,
borne of tablature and burning,
speaking only of their silence
as Atlantis, lost in dark constancy,
might re-appear out of the sea
knowing, still unknown,
yet known to be unseen.
There is a cloud upon my brow,
a doubt embracing certainty,
a synthesis of thought and draught
quite rich enough to taste. It augurs death;
it augurs why; it smiles and spins away.
I smile as well.
This unknown knowing
leaves a trace to follow...the ellipsis
saying this is not the end. It augurs breath
a little while, the mind upon
an open path, the pristine gift
just beyond our eyes.