The Way
I've looked for a way in,
a tear in the silence
that walls whatever is behind
be it nothingness or being,
bright mornings that almost
tip into the ecstatic, a blessed
oblivion where boundaries
dissolve and all things
become one, but the world
always holds together,
its forces fail to break.
A prisoner of form,
my cathedrals are cathedrals
of space buttressed by trees,
a sacristy for the echoes
of creation still sounding across
time. Forgiveness is the gentle
wash of rain and the frail beauty
of a wildflower, white as snow,
is the candle flickering
on the altar of the unknown.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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