15 Feb 2014

when time brews and is brimming out as i try and press shut the lid from all happening
i fail to stop the bubbling fruition of that incomprehensible stew
where in the year of the horse i rode the winds of my desire to an unnamable place
wings flapping furiously on the angel whose shoes i was hanging onto
what if we become accustomed to the sweetness? to the aromas of the dizzy heights?
to eat of the tree of the forgetting of the knowledge of good and evil?
how are we supposed to separate the light from the darkness at the edge of the twilight?
every day’s night a work of redemption, the desperation of time run out
the current returns from a journey through a world of night, exhausted and yet tingling
with the mathematics of a saint to concoct a world of exact blessings
there is no more time for beginnings, and the time for endings rushes into the becoming
to believe that the grand purpose is solved in a million little miracles

posted by John H. Doe @ 1:20 am

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