Vacillating between two
polarities, the poet rediscovers himself through language. Comes upon the cornerstones of that which
unites us with the ancient womb, the pale light that rustles inside the voice
of a distant-cipher. Windblown hair
faded as the
sun that sinks beneath
clouds. I come to the pearl locus, a
vagrant with a coral mind, who slips from murkiness of being into the clarity
of thought lost in its own devices. The
autumn rests upon a word, a leaf spinning through time I relocate in each-motion
that removes us from who we think we are.
Is it our lot in life to frequent the clouded halls left behind by those
adepts who work their language beyond the confines of time?
Is the sun that yet pools in distant-heat a specter who devours our dream? A knack for survival leads us from the
temple, where we discover keystones of tension, energize the lives that no longer smolder
with hope. Plasma distends into glass
estuaries.
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