Marcolorenzo Ruggenti Poet Free verse

THE DREAM VEIL

“Humankind cannot bear very much reality” T.S. Eliot Four Quartets “Burnt Norton”

                                                   THE DREAM VEIL

Dreams dripping off the fringes of the dream veil, like the tears of the damned,
                                                tears of the damned,
Smeared on the painted screen hung across the façade of God’s dwelling place
               While white columns of music hold up the night sky
                    And moonlight dances across the face of eternal time
           The surface voids capture the shadows and songs smiling in from paradise,
   And the halved rhythm contained within a pre-destined breeze, flutters along the edges
                          In a glittering wave of billowing agitation.

              Tacked up onto the timbers of a superimposed un-truth
   Carried in from the outer reaches of the forests of ignorance in numbered rings
                                                      Numbered
     Eons of layered madness are placed across the divine face, and music
                                                    Is obliterated,
               The blinding, camouflaging work of the skeletal hands
                                                       Of half men
     Sinks backwards into deep descending vortices, receding into the mouth of the universe
                                                        Unsatisfied
             While the misunderstood songs of angels and prophets accompany
                   Hammering beats of the construction of other hymns,
       Composed in a strange disturbing stage set, with a cantus firmus erratus of un-lived
                                             Un-examined experience
     In front of God’s eyes, blinding, blocking, wet scenes, dripping into the odourless void 
                                                           below.

        And each night mending is done according to plans of the conditioned child
                                In a narrow sexual embrace with fallen kin
       Done to keep its surface content intact, so little or no divine essence passes in,
      And repairs of inevitable small holes and tears from the day’s machinery are made
                                         Blocking out God’s knowledge.
                               Yet grace and truth do seep out all the same,
                and mix with the artificial painted wetness of the night creatures’ work
                                         whose chalky white bones
                      devoid of living flesh crumble into the dust of annihilating sleep,
                                              where dream work is done,
     swept off into the disappearing ”was” of the timbered set and momentarily forever of dreams
                                                 anchoring convention,
whose practitioners’ forgotten fragments are continually swept off into frozen stars beyond the sun,

 falling,
                      falling,
                                         falling,
                                                           falling,


                                 falling from the edges of the veil, like petals
                                                              falling
                                                                     from
                                                                         faded
                                              black sun raised roses falling
                                                            spiralling
                                                             sprays,
   off into the blue- black abyss of death and eternal silence, muted demons of constructed
                         convention-keeping and self-preserving deluding dreams
                   d I s a p e a r I n g, transforming, unseeing filters of the final truth.  
                     While Glorias and Alleluias pour out of behind the temple’s door,
                                                             God’s breath
                  Pulsating against the deafening membrane of theatrical artifice
               From the other side, where there is nothing more to do but sing with
                                                     Saints and Seraphim
                                                       The Praises of Him
                Seated in majesty on high on the uncovered throne of HIS DIVINE WILL.

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