Excerpt from “Being, Eternal: Prologue”

(continued from Canto 5)
...
So rest ye, your little and weary head,
for your troubles are many and trials unfair.
Feel Her blanket upon your bosom.
Nestled tight within the grip of whitened paws.

Give us this day – our daily bread,
not tomorrow’s nor the next.


Canto 6

A thought that dreamt a fantasy and a truth.
And sorry it could not know both, and be one dreamer
Long it thought, to peer into one as far as it possibly could.
Then knew the other, as just as fair.
But for both a hope that echoed; beyond difference,
beyond regret, beyond despair:
That though one was magic and the other love,
Neither would ever exist alone. All the world a
thought.

I do not sleep perchance to dream, dear friend:
That is why I wake.

A lake: that one of two could be.
Soft, not dreary, the placid that angels sleep on.
Its origin is a perfection unknown. The final resting place
of a flower most unique:
The petal of a rose that holds the ring of a lover.
It makes no ripples. But it floats. Adrift.
A single ring – commitment never more genuine.
Here it had always been, though never once wanted.
Eternity.

The dim sparkle that it reflects from the apathetic sky
is longing.
Beauty, regrettably, beyond compare. Not the earthly
home of heaven, but its inverse.
Eerily perverse. This forever dreams
of another place, where rocks rain from the sky:
Pebbles crashing cacophonously onto angel’s beds,
and petals sinking or flying amid meaningful
waves.

I do not dream of kings, so we needn’t ask.
Kings must dream of me.

She drives likes wildfire, madness, addicted to a bi-polar dream.
Though the road is long, she does not err:
not one moment upon dusty trails for her. No interest
toward places where nightmares are known to tread.
The sky clouded over long ago; a seeming sorrow.
Tragedy is the fantasy of this fiction, fuel to this fire.
The brazen blues of cement shadows hold her conviction,
driving her endless and onward and forever and ever.
Amen.

Secrets sit in the seat next to her, comfortable and unbuckled:
Unshackled and welcome, they do not boast the same bleak skies.
They simply do not boast.
They are invisible whispers, conditioning the air.
There are no passengers on her ride. Only drivers.
Static and music play in tandem with the road’s chorus
as cities and mountains pass by, each in their own time,
each with their own purpose, their own lofty, unknown climb.
Amen.

Any road that diverged will find its way.
Lines less than perfect must cross or run astray,
and so the drive finds resolve. Though she does not know where,
She knows why.
Unrelentingly is the quiet echo: what is hers and hers alone
is what is when all else retreats.
Her divine mystery.
A perfect coin tells its tales only half the time.
Amen.

Not a man.
I am Woman.


Canto 7

On the 7th day, God rested.

His creation complete. He had His chance.
And in the shadows of His slumber, devils danced.

Six wonders did He create in His ideal.
Six wonders to each other did He reveal.
Six wonders for whom stood no appeal.

Pulse and power, their open eyes,
Ne’er to have a reason why:
for He slept throughout their morning cry.
Without that gift, they’d surely die.

They cast to the depths of chaos, Subtle Care.
Rejected light and all its fare.
No more interlude, no more preface,
all the world to be defaced.
With Dad away, man and beast came to play.

They began to worship like Jekyll and Hyde,
the space between a woman’s thighs.
And of a man of mass and swift reply,
...
(continued)