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 ©