- Sadness, by means
- of synonym, glistens
- on what is within
nothingness;
-
- the whisper of time,
distilling
- from sound, the
unknown around you.
-
- Another conversation,
in your language,
- and laughter circles
this moment;
-
- every vision a
twisted echo.
-
- We invent occupied
air,
- (the kind without
words to repeat),
- and dream up
- this fiction of
mistaken tradition.
-
 -
- The rain is what you
find,
- confirming our need
to talk
- of belief in idiom
and of
- how we replenish the
words
- repeatedly invented
- in the poetry you
travel.
-
 -
- From the chaos of
diction,
- tranquility achieves
- a distinct dialogue
- of solitary sound.
-
- We air the ambition
- to believe in
repetition
- and are free of
expectation.
-
- This time is what
- the innocent demand
of sanity.
-
 -
- The longer we
dispense with memory
- the more emptiness
remains,
- watching our grasp
- on each lateral truth
dwindle
- and every beginning
we bring about die.
-
- Without words to
repeat,
- forever is the
shallow
- history of bedlam.
-
 -
- You balance affinity
- as far as passion for
the nature
- of within allows
- and realise the
moment
- is how we unravel
being:
-
- outside is far and
near,
- jagged, yet seductive
-
-
- domain of the tongue.
-
 -
- We stretch belief in
consistency
- to prove our
inadequacy
- in abstracting words
- from the echo-filled
breath of life;
-
- words to hope are
there,
- to end this beginning
- and cast what is
created
- into the world you
meet.
-
 -
- Muddled intuition
- is what survives of
faith
- where the unknown
- promises another
past:
-
- your future buried
- in assumption that
- the present is why
- we gather without
purpose;
-
- everywhere and
always,
- awakening possibility
- and trusting the
spontaneous
- to drift towards
reason.
-
 -
- Pure history exists
- to make our world
understood,
- to bestow the instant
with intent.
-
- The end is always
there,
- determined by
accident
- and fashioned by
desire.
-
 -
- I answer your words
- with cadences of
transition,
- every sound poured
- from passionate
language.
-
- I answer, always
beyond
- the absolute of
angles,
- but through with
- what is poetry of
reason.
-
 -
- Sorrow is the
doubt-thorn
- of weakness you
choose,
- your eloquence and
thunder
- unbroken while the
one image
- we hold of truth
- is sabotaged by
questions.
-
- You have the
right to carry on.
-
 -
- You are the now
- I obscure in words
- and greet with
incertitude;
-
- the present diluted
- by the tide of empty
promises
- made while stillness
slumbered.
-
 -
- The difference
between
- what exists of
meaning
- and what there is
- of inexhaustible
breath
- is direction -
invariably
- obscure and out of
step,
- it is the impetus you
confront.
-
 -
- The experience of
time
- continues to prove
- our death unfeigned;
-
- a twisting dialogue
- of caprice and
allusion,
- of obscure
consequence
- wholly expected.
-
- How we confess
is the deceit.
-
- What is always there
- must come about
- to contrive ambiguous
wisdom;
-
- the simplest word
- concealing desire.
-
 -
- You belong to where
illusion
- abandons words and
sound
- weaves the coming
season,
- each intonation
summoning
- faint motion,
pleading unequaled
- knowing, yet
forevermore
- keeping to the path
preserved.
-
 -
- You achieve symmetry
of purpose
- from swearing you are
the emptiness
- your confession
contains,
- every beginning
consumed
- by the sterile
clarity
- of thinking near and
always
- are how this madness
is grasped -
-
- you have the poetry
you travel.
-
 -
- I move on, finished
but breathless,
- with the ritual
fiction of sense
- forming without
lasting, final yet infinite.
-
- Consonances are
there,
- tangible, if only in
relation
- to life remembered.
-
- The time is now.
-
 -
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