but if a living dance upon dead minds
why,
it is love;
but at the earliest spear
of sun perfectly should disappear
moon's utmost magic,
or stones speak or one
name control more incredible splendor than
our merely universe,
love's also there:
and being here imprisoned,
tortured here
love everywhere exploding maims and blinds
but surely does not forget,
perish,
sleep
cannot be photographed,
measured;
disdains
the trivial labelling of punctual brains...
-Who wields a poem huger than the grave?
from only Whom shall time no refuge keep
though all the weird worlds must be opened?
Can I forget what it is that I have lost,
just because I cannot recall what it is that I have gained?
Or will the world just stop,
and you no longer hear the ticking of the clock.
Because time is inconsequential,
as are the illusions that we call reality;
True as my heart may be,
my mind speaks for me
as such is true, so I ask of you;
will the speech of our minds
tell us what it is that is solid,
and of what is liquid, so liquid,
that in fact, it is barely clear,
the musty, dark feel of our thoughts,
swirling around in our minds
show us that maybe we really are not real
like images shining in a pool,
with the flicker of a drop
we become blurred,
losing sight of who and what we are
Is this, what being human is all about?
There is a metaphorical fine line between being in control and being controlled.
And right now, I don't know which of which am I.
Is this what it feels like, to be a designated soul, sent forwards or back;
to a life of hell?
