Within the White Noise
Have you ever pondered
shadows are made of
softness, they are not
hard surfaced like
those of us existing
outside of the white noise
unable to grasp -
the invisible,
that speak meaning to us,
whispering their sagacious platitudes,
we see them briefly, then,
they disappear into the cracks
in the walls of us,
we are blind -
to the shadows that stand
and walk beside us,
they make us jump,
so we avoid looking
too closely,
at those penumbras
we shut our windows,
we roll down the venetians,
those masks we wear daily -
no one is an open book,
we are the bookmarks,
in our own recycling stories,
dog-eared each chapter -
returning occasionally
to understand what
long sentences mean
in the shorter less than
poetic moments
of our purpose
intelligence scattered -
running from the hell hounds
those shadows we never
successfully collar and lead,
they find us eventually
and lick at our feet,
praying for us to take them in,
to love them, to tame them,
but they are wild things, living,
all in their own dimensions;
the shadows that walk beside us,
the ones we hardly ever notice,
feed those baying Baskervilles light
to satiate, and to calm them,
we try to love them,
those hell hounds -
eventually they possess us,
for a while, their hunger strays
to other things
we ride the wild
like we are them,
they eventually turn on us
and take us by the throat, then,
we, unable to speak, resort
to writing poetry
they rip our hearts out
greedily, the blood leaves
a trail - and we look,
for the shadows again,
to bring us light, still,
something of the hounds remain
you can see it
in the eyes,
something wild
romping in the mind,
pulsing bright light
like a neon sign
advising,
"avoid at all costs,
The Uncontained"
avoiding at all costs,
for it is far far too expensive
to entertain the loss of time
in such darkness,
the ripening fear in others
steers them mercilessly,
they turn their backs
and walk away,
from all
that singular madness,
"no! never that!", they think,
that is never them;
that one, singing
beautiful unlearn’ed tunes
to mirrors in the darkness,
dances with ghosts
who remember
the brush strokes of a life,
listening to other channels -
who gift
strange meaning
embedded automatically
between the magik
refrains of music
of the forgotten
the phantom heartbeat -
that one
is with the Baskervilles
running wild and free
barking with shadows
loving the luscious life licking
the uncontained within
Candide Diderot. ‘24
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Candide Diderot
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