Hyperion
A bright star shimmers over once still seas:
my final destination
treks across troubled waves
and over seething storms
my instinct is heightened and honed
far from suffocating cold
northern climes
On the final ascent,
over the last bruising steps,
gasping...grasping for air.
Now I'm breathing
with consummate ease.
Once more I taste the scented air
and sense the cool ocean heaving.
As Trinita Dei Monti marble
beckon,
a dark figure in the doorway
is veiled steeped in shadows
lifts a white hand,
parts the mask,
shows a pale face
aged wrinkled;
as if fated with a tragic task;
but in an instance
illuminated cold flesh
radiated by golden braided beams;
pale eyes by azure blue brightened
as all darkness dissipates in a flash.
Do I dream? a face
transfigured
transmigrated.
remembered with maternal smile.
unable to speak in this mortal world,
words silently mouthed, not uttered
like magenta moths caressing air
with fragile wings flinching close
still unsavaged by care
and disease,
opening the door
into the church.
its perfumed aroma seems a perfect release.
relinquished
now a warm hand
welcomes me
to this insubstantial tomb.
Is it an illusionary monument?
poetry has written
my name into a fountain
of dreams in eternal water
etched ripples that ruffle
a lake's troubled surface
skimmed by pebbled words
if you too dare to dream,
let these Spanish Steps
be your stairway
your path
your pilgrimage
to the high windows:
below, the square;
above, stark bright stars
vortexing
shuddering
shimmering the night
my life mask now a sharp new constellation.
Copyright © Brian Duffield | Year Posted 2019
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