April 21: Back to basics

Quintessence; The grave robber

 

Quintessence

The sky is a mosaic of roses and sunbursts as the sun sets,
pastels swirling into majestic clouds complex, and the
breezes are whispering of night to come: no less of a frenzy—
focus is dimmed, compressed…
but vivacity never ceases completely: it only latches on
to mysterious longings, the intrinsic race to the center
of the maze;
I stand amongst shimmering lights bathing me from
above and around, heavenly darkness cloaking globes of
an occult light that quivers curiously;
the noise is pervasive, too many voices to pick one out,
the smells are a divine cauldron of sickening sweet spice—
and feelings swell into a tangle beyond explanations,
I am growing numb, the ecstasy becoming agony; I
am lost in a grand tapestry of schemes and dreams,
a vapor of a flame holding out against a hurricane—
but beneath the crushing deluge,
a single note cuts
through the clamor to reach my bleeding ears and silence comes,
a single second peaks out
from millennia, hesitantly stretching its meager muscle to
grab my attention, standing at attention amongst
the green shield of woven branches that hide my figure as I was;
silence, and emptiness coalesce in my overburdened mind
and I witness a single drop falling from the sky:
the quintessence of fluidity,
flooding my mind with its astonishing simplicity.

 

April 21, 2014

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The Grave Robber

I unearthed the casket at last,
and – unbecomingly for a grave robber—
I shuddered at the thought of what I’d find;
but as my associate whispers down softly,
we’ve got it to do yet, and I think, disgruntled,
that he’s not the one down in a grave;
she is the lady of a ghost town in truth, but she
was, in life, notoriously vain and avaricious—
so the treasure maps said, those codices
that spread all her secrets; the casket is opened
with a few quick punches of an axe, and
I soothe my temple with the bland thought that
she won’t be getting deader as time passes—
but we could certainly get caught; my light
shines through the splinters and catches
on dull hair so wispy, she could be a wraith:
I queasily set my light down, and the shadows
play a nasty trick on me: her lips may be gone,
but her mouth seems to move, her eyes
are mere puffs of memory’s cloud, but I’m sure
that she’s staring at me, deploring; but that
is not what haunts me – she is like no other,
a prize for a grave robber: a ghastly sight, but
with vestiges of what must have been beauty once;
philosophy is ignited in thought’s barren expanse
sparked by a corpse, that stares at me with pity, flesh
long unburdened off bones of an almost pure white,
and, even staring at me without eyes, surrounded
by her gems that I came for and her otherworldly hair,
she seems more beautiful for the kinship we share:
we live, we rob, we die – that endless cycle,
unknowable and omnipotent forces that give me
an edge in getting to know her even here—
she is locked in a spiral of decay, that I know
is only barely kept at bay inside my living,
writhing body – and maybe she is dead, but she,
unlike us lucky robbers still in the game of
mortality pitted against a need for survival, she, in
the simplest place, the last place one strives to
achieve it, but gets it whatever we scheme – she
has found peace…

 

April 21, 2014

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