How does one resign oneself
To a softer experience,
Like that of the glow of the moon?
To cool reflections,
Over the harsh brightness
Of the images of the sun at noon?
To hold on to the holy, silent nights of winter
And not run to the mad heat of the night
Teeming with the pride of life
In the shadows of June?
The world turns too quickly
And tilts in the direction of life’s own reflection
For the aging soul, too soon;
Amid the hopes that spring eternal
That another day will give
Its adolescent boldness
The visions it requires
To cause the proper light again to bloom.
No more, I say!
There is nothing that can save me
From the darkness
I must face with the courage of an helpless infant
About to be spit so harshly
From the comforts of the womb.
Only the hope born in a cold cave
Of life’s self longing for salvation,
The cross too forced upon me
And quickly bloodied,
And the prospect of a resurrection
After I lay sleeping for a while
In an all too common tomb.
Move on, you tired pilgrim,
To what is born in the dark
And the stillness
And the silence
Of a solitary room;
For there you will find what it is
That you give to the world
Like it finds every day
In the heavens of obscurity
Broken only by the sweet, gentle image
Of a peaceful moon.
2013.02.13.0000 ©