Of Last Things
As I awoke this morning with
an urge to write
of nothing in particular, I thought
of endings I have written of before.
and of the many times nostalgia
that I hated as a youth, settled once again
upon its throne of reverie
and I, weak-spirited, would welcome it
again, my mindless old reward
for having staved-off dying
one or two more years. This flimsy
basket filled with tear-stained baubles
still so comforting, how cliche-worn...
No! Centuries not yet come or gone,
will tremble in the wake
of one last handshake that I made,
one final, intense gaze into the eyes
of someone you might never even know,
go in the archive of creation--
and its opposites!
Those, too, were hands that engaged mine,
focused eyes upon a moment
binding me forever in the sweep of history
as breath and cataclysm each prevail
and joins the line of march.
Comfort indeed that here is not
the arbiter of truth. Here I am fed,
and the uncertainty is my sustainer.
I too tremble with the dawn, and in
my sleep-logged mind I trace again
the little moments when I sighted Paradise
and quickly left because it was
too much. Now they are gone.
I no longer see these last things
in my basket, yet I know they live
somewhere. I sense them,
feel their strange intensity
and stranger still, their fortitude
revealed in my prophetic daydreams
of a life beyond the grave.
Or then, perhaps, an astral prophecy
of now?
~
Copyright © Robert Ludden | Year Posted 2014
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