Past Time

No little comfort before the void

Of the willing; could not see any parable placed

And the ether

No measure for the soul: no amount

To focus the view into the distant-rim

Level to the God, level to a knowledgeable-mind like a genius

For the cast-away. The pale eyes has no guilt

Of following a divided-thing parting wake, more, forever: beyond earthly       wisdom and all imagination, more

Though thought and times

To the end, or for joy of doing

With desire and company, as a mature hatched collected with his lost clan:

Where relief rekindles the fire of doing he urges

To align existence of being with mysteries of knowing,

Alongside the traveled wake as it shapes its ether

Towards the existing gap of the break: a knowing to come

And doesn’t stop there, only arriving, there

By fear: the fear that’s been there since old time,

Not after the family’s mutual claimed right

Beyond family’s concern: not shared

Starting to open for me: I fade into dream

I come through I found my resonance

Into the new space I lengthen my sensing

With a second-to-none uselessness,

Along with the augments that cycle each period

The discard and derelict common wits, jumps at each occasion

Has to be told: the hope that the awareness of self comes fourth

Through new feeds coming out of the other, between intervals, smaller yet

There and not there, reckon constantly

By the unknowable: in this way anchored by my walking

Over again  in this way branded by learning hard,

And usually faulty, forever equalizing,

And decloaked, and penniless yet, beyond the years

On the stage, that one can see

What can I tell, show

Will self find, unlimited going

The other eye measured plane-site perfectly shape

For the vague trace,

The space-warped gravity pulling

Going with another view, all sinewy in concert

Spacing not carrying

What placing   what symmetry

Some calm comes breathless by the guessing,

The gateway, fear-struck, non-reversible  singular  obsessive,

The lackadaisical timing, the unspoken proverbs of the ages:

Other periods,   other lifetimes they don’t come across

For me, and always waiting,

But never enough, holding in

With its colorless white, its odorless white,

To be who I am but an invention of the past,

 Not defined yet, go further.

 Copyright 2013