I am not the fallen, but the falling -- he who never hit the ground. And you may hope to know my call, but I was never there at all. I was sitting on the tower. I was dropping to the ground. I never emitted a flash of light, and never emitted a peep of sound. I am the falling, not the fallen. The one who never hit the ground.
From dirt, the newly sprouted plant is but two tender leaves, drooping. Its silken shaft in subtle slant, in shadow of gardener, stooping. ... Becomes the tree standing stout -n- straight. Its leafy limbs doggedly swayed. Its own acorns now split and sprout, as the old man sits in its shade.
I a stand of pines from the lake's edge to the mountain's bald spot
II dense green vines wind through dead tree branches disguising death
III the mountain lake refreshes and chills by sight alone
In isolation, I took to story, and traipsed through worlds impossible yet true, living life from infantile thru hoary, under skies: gunmetal to deepest blue, in lands where trucks were known to be lorries, and ancient cities breathed as though brand new. Where neither time nor bars could imprison, I found my phoenix had now arisen.
I roam the old city, gazing at Gothic gargoyles and touching stonework made by men long since dead, wondering how I ended up in this chunk of time, rather than one in which this land was all just forest or marshland, or one in which we all wait amid the rubble to blast off to some secondary hive of humanity.
under spring skies, the evergreen - thick with new needles - echoes the tune sung by hardwood neighbors
We like to think we see the soul, but what we see is a flaming hole: a burning mask of time on task all coffee cup, no hidden flask the smile that lies -- no lows all highs. Who knows where ends the shrewd disguise?
The waves are churned to foam. The sight mesmerizes. My mind is miles from home. My seated self does roam -- chaos that surprises, like waves are churned to foam. Like one w/ Capgras Syndrome, hustler mistrust arises. My mind 's wary of home. I focus on the chrome, but my ear recognizes the waves that churn to foam. I've vagabond chromosomes, but still the thought chastises: "Your mind is miles from home!" I'm sitting all alone, and my mind surmises: Like waves churned to foam, your mind 's so far from home.
Rain sidles up in a commanding cloud -- early -- And so it waits in its cloud, like the awkward party guest who sits in his car, waiting to be fashionably late, but - not having decoded what "on-time" really means - arrives early, nevertheless.
I walked a snowy street, quietly as the falling snow, a snow that melted under foot, not one that crunched - compacting. Everything was deadened by that not-so-cold snow, a snow that swallowed sound, a snow that would have shunned light -- had there been any to shun. But it was night, and I was walking in the snow.