the fevered brow
burning on cool fingers;
and wish you could not wonder
at wonder being put to sleep
beneath midnight stars
that shine so severally deep
and cold in the misty skies.
Twinkle of knowledge
of not knowing what you know
or feeling of feeling
what you feel -
of being left random alone
in the gentle night
heavy with air of
tonight snuffed out
from light of tomorrow
and the meaning of
meaning turned on its head.
It may seem this sorrow
has seamless resources
to sap the soft touch
of your soul upon
the next fevered brow
or trembling hand.
And the mask of now
may hide the face of tomorrow
from even your gentle eyes.
I don’t believe belief
can breathe its broad
store of reasons
of why you must still believe
down your moist neck;
why even its entry
into this grim hall...
may make you rise and leave.
Not that you have not wrested
from rising vapours of
various “whys” your own
versions of purpose.
Or struggled to seek
in the steaming mists
of burning tears
(yours and hers and theirs)
the source of their flow -
as the pilgrim still seeks
the Ganges at its source.
That the Maker must
make do with cosmic dust;
and bear blood and
bruised body beaten blue
to the shivering hill
and shout out clear
whilst cosmic metal
holds him fast
that it “is finished.”
What done? What at an end?
- This order of things
the way things are
the way they must not be
... all this
must already have meant
something to you.
And so, I will not speak.
