The Sublime Myth
Meaning hangs on a wing
and briefly holds together,
tipping on some fine edge,
a feathers weight from oblivion.
Take this evening, a sunset
settling upon the water, the fleck
of a small boat with its solitary figure
floating the still, birds flying overhead,
each a part of a moment
sliced from a second.
Mere coincidence, a chance picture
put together by a confluence of things
in a corner of a vast cosmos.
The birds trailing their cries
in long threads across the sky
seem to hymn a lament,
the dark slowly closing over
the world like a large eyelid
before the coming of night
and the onset of sleep.
There is nothing but a sublime
myth to keep the soul awake,
to make of what is passing
into something permanent,
meaning kept afloat on that
small, distant image of a boat
set upon a blessed sea,
it's existence flickering in
and out of a pale beam
of hope.
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