night falls with a clap of hands
fresh bathed in new silk sheets
scented with jasmine
and the effulgence of parched earth wetted
in the mauve darkened sky
silver stars diamond white
perfom symphonious lullabies
gentle as spring's first breath
opening the blossom
curled in sleep undreaming
there I see my life
replete with soundtrack of myself
in dialogue with action
not in the dock
but at the bar
a roll of things left undone
or moments when I might have done
but did not cat for want of change
they come not now in accusation
chiding still
but not in spite
for here where time has no meaning
one cannot set the past to right
I say not in pride
of admiration
for what was done
was done for good
these choices
now shown in aspic
are minor
they are forks in the road
events missed
in the general narrative
alternatives at best
justice is that is the process
held within the vision seen
and I shall not condemn myself
for sake of fifteen minutes
when
I lingered for a coffee
instead of hastening for the train
no stop
for perfection
stop to consider
if this is what I ought to do
gentle reader would you
would you pick at the offered threads
of misdemenours long forgotten
that child you called a name
the door you allowed to close
when it was just as a easy
to stay to keep it open
and that is before we reach the lovers
whose roses you crushed
and letter you ripped
or the plastic genius
over whose prose you skipped
yes no one is perfect
and those who have had therapy
know only to well
the purpose of this cinema spiritual
with no corporeal regard
what punishment can there be
for I too well acknowledge
the brightest of the suns
not in pity I expect
whole in mercy I respect
and this night summoned by my wish to rest
is in itself perfection sweet
for me to be outcast
The Blue Book
No comments:
Post a Comment