A Mountain – Void.
Observes this beauty, a Granite Monolith, looming ahead.
An image to light the eyes, brighten the soul – are fed
the belief that within the systolic, lies pure gold
at it’s heart – to be mined – but it is oh so cold,
hard and reluctant – stories seen, heard are told
yet this miner, digs deep, continues to mine,
a prayer from his lips – hope, dreams he will find
at it’s centre, in it’s core, within it’s heart.
One would hope, that this would be the place to start.
A most exquisite journey on high – into the ether,
were distances, exist not, where, may neither
come to know or experience the pangs of aloneness,
aloneness – none existent – gives life to closeness
as they traverse life’s disappointing, rocky roads
carrying, in their heads, the weight of life’s heavy loads.
This, they may, happy, do together or on their own, alone.
Only you, the gods and heavens are known
to have the answers to what has been shown.
All you have laid out, all that has gone down,
and whether or not, this miner, is perceived a clown ?,
a fool ?, as the weight of all kills the music, the sound,
as he keeps trying to dig deeper into this solid ground,
this rock gives up, not a flake, a nugget, a vain of gold
that, throughout, in the past, to others, has been told
existed once upon a time. The miner finds only fools gold
the core of what he has been mining these past two years,
years that have brought him many, many – many tears.
Fools gold is all that he can see, in all that is reflected –
pools of images, imagined, distorted, throughout detected
that one sees, envisions painted upon the shaft walls,
observing the reflected light – walking those stony halls
looking for the source light dancing on wings that fly free,
that would lead them – together ?, - to what could be
for the rest of their life’s journey and life time
upon this plane, and all that is wished for, you to be mine.
A dream for this old mind, a dream, live, I’d love to find
In the hands of this old fool, not fools gold of any kind
to accompany this old man through his waning days,
the winter days of this life, on this plane as he plays
the last notes of his opus, the libretto, the requiem
of a life time that will depart, when it’s tine will come.
This miner is loosing the will to dig more for the gold
That lays the walls, those steel bars oh so cold –
That Mountain – Void, that beautiful, Granite Monolith
that stands on the edge, the miner on the edge of a cliff.
B. J. “A” 2
March 14th 2008