161113A
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In our world
beauty is always endangered.
Without that endangerment,
there would be no real romance.
The two things we are most frightened of
are always death and beauty,
though of those two things
beauty can be the more terrifying.
We are terrified
of what we cannot hope to resist,
watching our defenses crumble,
against invasions of strangers and loss.
The sort of freedom
a paralytic might chance to know,
when suddenly able to walk,
whenever something rises up. .
Words that could only come
from the mouth of a mute,
suddenly given to uttering language
to break silences spell.
The feeling that comes
when pain that has become so persistent
that we no longer feel it,
suddenly stops.
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161113B
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We rarely chance to evade horror,
being so easily confronted by it.
It becomes so common
that we hardly notice it anymore.
It turns into a perpetual condition,
of everything excessively common,
all that persistent conformity,
that defines the safe margins of so many lives.
Becoming that perennial expectation,
as to what everything turns into,
in a world that seems so full
of countless false promises.
The only thing that seems eternal,
withstanding endless changes,
that keep breaking away
everything we try to hold to.
Men invented Hell,
so as to feel more certain
of something everlasting,
when all else seemed failed.
It is that sort of modest comfort
seems more reasonable than Heaven.
The latter too distant to comprehend,
somewhere beyond the changing seasons.
We start to cling to something,
when whatever we came to love
somehow evaded our plans,
the way a missed train evades a passenger.
A long wearying journey
comprised of various missed connections,
detoured to where we did not want to go,
after planning the route so very carefully.
A horror of the excess,
of the mundane and the usual,
where no blood is ever spilt,
and no scream pierces the dark.
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161113C
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It is much easier,
when the ground is dark and bare;
all the last flowers having died away,
all the leaves having fallen.
It is much easier,
when the air grows coldest,
making flesh shudder,
with a deeper sense of loneliness.
It is never really easy,
even when it is easier,
and sometimes it takes as much courage
as the crossing of enemy lines.
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161113D
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If only she would let him,
the way he would let her.
If only someone would let them,
something might remain.
Life too often made a tragedy
that almost no one dares confess.
Many practice the habit of talking
only about whatever has left.
Few pray for miracles,
many more have given up wishes.
It is said love is the spider
that tangles stray lives.
To need is forbidden
and satisfaction sheds its slender hopes.
Whatever it was that was given,
usually takes, more than it gave.
to find anything that is true.
Luck is usually an illusion
created to pacify the poor.
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161113E
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All the places that one can go,
to find some bad luck.
Finding those who still believe
that they can win at spinning wheels.
Disjointed, out of step, times,
lacking progression.
Times when it all falls away,
to no one having the money, or the time.
Times of soliloquies and monologues,
craving attractive interruptions.
Escapes from the usual discomfort,
that inspires the need to shake loose.
Episodes of what we missed out on,
appended to cliff hanger stories.
Collecting reasonable facsimiles
in attempts at redemption.
Imagining an infinite number of places
where we would rather be.
Places populated by all those people
whom we never get a chance to meet.
Collecting various tokens,
as if that makes up a winning hand.
Never quite careful enough
as to which illusions are shattered.
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181113A
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It is the searching that consumes us.
Each of us following the same trails
of bread crumbs, perfume and miracles.
It all comes to the same in the end.
No one really finds what they look for,
everyone failing one or another test.
The inquisitors laugh at the answers,
to any of their questions.
It is a game that they love to play.
Another way of proving
that salvation is kept for messiahs
leaving the raw deals for everyone else.
It is the momentary pleasures
that one learns to accept as perfection.
Everything else being destroyed
in various acts of persuasion.
Too much of what happens
is like a dog chewing its own bones.
Most of the program of instruction
is about new types of discouragement.
You know that you are in trouble,
when everyone else has already given up.
for those fateful final moments.
You want to move forward,
and you want to get out,
of all those tedious details
that always get in the way of love.
Buried in rules and miscalculations,
every new move is an aborted launch.
It is all about the stars,
and where the planets might have been,
when you flew too close to the sun.
Scrapyards full of broken wings,
covered in glitter and limelight.
Most things end same as they are begun.
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