It is nineteen hundred hours,

The dark and the silence have begun,

The day in all its glorious madness

Has bled its colors and run.

But its pictures remain in my memory’s tracks

And I long for their pleasant release

So I ply them with personal preferences

As I hope their impression will cease.

What?

To be replaced with more movement

Away from the center

That will continue to fracture and confuse?

No, rather a run to an eternal presence

That can rectify, sanctify and enthuse.

Yes, the world outside will always be there,

It is the constant

Steady in time and in space

But it is the journey far away

In the silence of living

That nothing and no one can erase.

My soul is the eternal presence

That longs for the eternal sense

And it eschews my choices to pacify it

In the pleasures of the present tense.

2012.10.02.0600 ©