And so what if I walk this cold, dirt highway,
And what if I remark, on how the moon falls,
In the bosom of the hills,
Winking to the night, shadowing sun’s melodic calls,
And a cool night’s wind pushes long unkempt grass back in waves,
Dew flowing with the breeze, eddying and flowing, in perfect still,
Save the whispering of the wind,
So the rolling hills meet the sky, through some higher artist’s will,
And so what if I say, that that point is all that really matters in the world,
If, where the two realities meet, floods forth heavens unfurled,
And as my feet brush along the dusty floor,
In these haggard steps of lead,
I might come upon some resting place,
And remark on the beauty I'll no doubt soon forget,
Along the winding path, by the illusion post,
I can’t believe I’d almost offered up,
Moonlit waters, for gaunt branch’s grip,
Under visions of her Lethe-en sup,
Naught behind, to push onward their goals,
Each note sounds once more, swelling with the prismic rain,
Passing glimpses, time-worn script along the walls,
Chasing a disembodied whisper, that brings us home again,
“In time,” she’d say, “for ain’t that always where we’re fate,”
Into this clearing, that becomes our end, if but means remains the gate,
Sending off a glancing kiss,
To the fighter, who’d kneel before the bought,
After all, when it rains it pours,
After the flood, all the colours came out,
Though purged and pure came ethereal rains,
To the road still our destinies lay,
Feet bare and glistening over ancient rock,
Starlit, silhouetted hand, carving out the way,
With a knowing grin across his face,
He lulled us deep within his realm,
Weighing our eyes, clouding our thought,
Drawing us close enough to overwhelm,
Beneath the falcate stare that pierced our souls, they ushered us out of the night,
And led us before the house, who embraced us in their rite,
Seated at the table,
Lost wise men, the prophet, scribes of sages,
Witness to the final repast, the artist raised a hand,
And with a fell swoop came a portrayal to weather the ages,
Bathed in golden glow, that rises from the hearth,
Silver tongue shaping each tale, more boldly than the last,
Dipping his hand precariously close to bitter sin’s red chalice,
Dancing his finger deftly ‘long the rim, caustic chime outclassed,
Amidst the columns, that fade into vacant heights,
Hands spread open over some silk façade,
In pious self-profession that,
He bears weight the word of god,
And uproar came but muffled, from gentlemen half asleep,
Eyes wandering ‘round the room, onto anything their gaze can keep,
You could look upon his face and think,
“Was it the truth I’d heard,”
I suppose it was his smile,
For he lied in every word,
Soft spoken jest, is all it really was,
As radiating, shifting sand,
Whose flames lick the soul, and stir the mind,
As time flows free, from hand to hand,
And with each grain that cascades, rises from the depths, a roaring squall,
To quench these metaphors, and soak faded canvas sheer,
Made impure by strokes from the artist’s hand,
Fingers cupped in the river of hue, to sip the nectars of fear,
And gaze into colours fusing, in open reflection of compassion’s chime,
Set aflame in the wake of sun, ripping sky and time,
In all o' the colours, of the days and the night,
It hangs, enamouring, stills idle hand’s wrath,
Unconstrained, flow to the tools,
And we'll embark on creation’s path;
Forgotten soul, of withered hand,
With a sigh, paints what he sees,
So as she drew towards him,
The sight bore him to his knees,
Practiced touch, diffused into,
Devil’s tears, like rain upon,
Trembling hand, falls; broken down,
From delicate lips, that refuse being drawn,
“But soft…” he spoke, “what subtleties therein; see how the shadow’s cast,”
“Across her cheek, blushed so fair…” through the tears that won’t hold fast,
“Idyllic goddess, now I see,
“Beyond my pen hide truths unseen,”
So he set aside his quill, sat him down,
And then began to dream,
As the breath of the world,
I wish I could say something, deeper than these words let on,
To fill every crevasse, completing the soul,
Profound in a manner, surpassing the bounds of the song,
Sympathetically whispering sweet nothings in your ear,
Yielding child of desire, fleeting bliss of silver haze,
That descends from stained glass waterfalls,
And envelopes the mind’s eye’s gaze,
To dream again, exhale one’s soul, and forge tapestry imbued,
To shape the scene, a wondrous trance, and then believe it true,
Seamless spheres of auburn bliss,
Longing, eye for eye, though never seen,
What could I do but dive,
Fool I was, to feign serene,
Ascending in the misty spring-time fog,
Glistening, in the glass eyes of morning dew,
That pass wary glimpse from grassy vantage,
Upwards, spiralling against skies of hue,
On the hand of the wind, flowing together in fragile light,
Of daybreak o’er the valley, refracted in sinuous sward,
Tearing the horizon, by illusionary seams,
Set ablaze this sea; emerald abyss; sirens holding the fjord,
Silken veils plunge from untapped nexus, signalling the sky to fall,
Though all conceived, as the world gives way, is the beauty of it all,
And what bliss it is, when you know that this,
Is how you’ll remember it once it’s spent,
That, through fleeting sights, as time slips by,
We'll once more make the ascent,
And as if in response to these thoughts of days ending,
Comes the lucid song of prophetic swan,
That recounts to us our quest,
The mystery of such simple joys foregone,
Sympathizing with the heart,
Wanton rains grant immortal bliss,
Spirits lifting in the rising wind,
To complete the poignant reminisce,
Each raindrop, as it trickles across this mind, into some greater whole,
Delves into something yet more profound, showering emotion unto the soul,
Opening doors; unable to cope, I’d once exhausted closed,
So close, her song still echoing within my ear,
Everything I’d felt comes pouring back,
And, oh, how I wish you were here,
Seeping into consciousness,
Emotions coursing together, in some abstract dance,
Far cry from the thought themselves, epitomized,
In a moment’s grasp of purity, drawn in a sneaking glance,
And then a sort of hush, descends upon the scene,
Faces off the water, stilled in silent awe,
Against this sheer beauty beyond words,
Frozen in the foreground, of the wraithlike winter’s thaw,
Blue-white frost caressing crimson edges, forming the perfect contrast,
That perpetuates into eternity, and holds its brilliance to the last,
And it's here I can lay myself down,
Let tender rainfall catch in my hand, thrown absently askew,
And speak soft the only words of justice to their warmth,
... I love you.
This message has been edited by WondersmithWest from IP address 68.144.28.13 on Dec 18, 2004 12:15 PM
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