From atop an old stone rampart, one's head within the clouds, one expects to see an old oxcart through that foggy shroud. But down below, the modern day: buses, cafes, and cars. I turn my head the other way, and the world 's as it was: Back in the times when that fortress was besieged and battered, and nothing moved freely but for a flag -- singed and tattered. There's a certain romantic view of long-gone days of old, but I think I'll be heading down before I catch a cold.
the river's surface, glassy from above, looks choppy from the edge.
Do I look blurry to a fish,
as if a floating cloud?
Does it expect I’ll dart away
as silence rings aloud?
Stationed in East Anglia,
I remember layered fog,
fog so thick one couldn't
see past the hood's end,
but, given a slight rise,
one could see all the way
down the runway -- as if
it was a cloudless full moon eve.
As one might expect of an airbase,
(having been built around a flat runway)
there wasn't much topography.
But sometimes life is like that:
a tiny rise in perspective
allows one to see the world clearly,
but a minor dip puts one in a
soup of unfathomability.
To find oneself within a crate - packed inside and labeled "Freight" seems like the worst that things can get, but then I peered out through the slit, and what a thing it was to see a croc's keen eye stare back at me. It had so many freakin' teeth, both on the top and underneath! I concluded the box 'tweren't so bad. To stay a while, I would be glad!
Buddha statue: what would its reflection in my eyes look like?
two common trees,
seen from a distance,
merge to an ideal.
I exited through my old, mundane door, and heard a melody so blissful / sweet, and saw some colors never seen before. That song, those sights, danced me down the street. A neon breeze both warmed and cooled my face. The pleasure wave that I'd once known as sin was flaring, with no feelings of disgrace, but up my spine a trill of violin. Euphoric, I ran 'til I felt lungs burn -- so fired with energy that my bones hummed -- But as I felt the wheels begin to turn, I realized the depths must remain unplumbed. Before my druthers, I had to go back. To sustain this would give me a heart attack.
Our lives are blobs that melt away. You may not sense the drips. It happens slowly; you may never hear burbled blips. You may not feel that it's lighter, or that it's lost some girth. Because you've shed it gently each and every day since birth. And when you feel the withering, will you take it as loss? A good loss like becoming lean -- a skimming of the dross? Or like a vicious theft of the best parts of one's being: like time has grabbed the valuables and taken to fleeing? The melt will continue onward until there is no more. So, think yourself experience rich though you are time poor.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 