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Poem

My thoughts reflect
upon the hour glass,
and knowing with the bottom mostly full
and darkness closer by,
the thing I was supposed to do
is undefined, retreating
in the now descending dusk,
a most sardonic eulogy, indeed,

There is a cadence beating
as I turn within.  It echoes
as the triumph's hollow drums 
would sound beneath the pines
along the Appian way,  a counterpoint
to whispers that "thou art a man,"
a shell, a fallen leaf thrust by the wind,
accountable the least of all
to some inverted pride.

There is a song within such turning,
that is unsung, unending, 
like a silent god, an unobtrusive,
still insistent art in parallel
along the corridor I walk.
It is the spectre that I also do not see.
It is the consciousness I share unborn, undying,
and the I-ness that I do not dare to touch.

And were I then to reach for it,
would you as well?
And are we not dependent
on the swell of every soul fulfilled...
Upon the hope clean ecstasy 
may bring to sing at last
when all the silence bursts upon us?

Come, and bear with me
the crashing of the sea,
the fire emerging from beneath,
the planets crumbling,
the blackened sun--for that 
we shall espy within
an endless cosmos of the mind
that cannot calculate the way to die.
                   ~

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