Descend

A cold rain descends.  Falls upon us all as we plod the mud.  Damp earth, earthen atmosphere - these wait amidst the middle.  In between charged heaven and fiery core - the earth will spring in time.  In time we too shall spring as flowers. . . as sheaves of grain.  To see the sun, to stretch upright in sunshine - for now a cold rain descends.  Its descending reign now actively diffused, dispersed into the shadows until there are no more.

Crystals.
Shimmering night.
The moon is silver
it turns gold, flashing,
with butterflies and the golden moon.
One night I went outside.
I dreamed upon a wishing star.

Through slender back-beat
they move to oblivion.
Sirens call, crashing

to rocks below, and the bellows fan flames.
Embers breathed upon at last,
and these from a foreign flame were lit.
Carry light, and carry lightly for the paths remain broken.
Brambles reach to snag,
and crowns to crosses turn in the twilight.

It is here, the blurry in between.
The waiting. . . pregnant pause of Holy wisdom.
Born in light, lived in mud,
and yet to be celestial or something other.

Listless, grey-brown sky.
Purgatory hills beckon
souls and dust to lie

Baptism: Drop me drowsy here in Springtime. My mind and heart do tremble as one. . . stop, the meter's gone and ticketing binge begins. But, oh, to cease, to stop, to park, to prod, and be moved by forces beyond mere nature. To rest, to reach, to move, to breach the still undulating surface of "freedom". Is it so, freedom, this canopy to burst? We play above in spring and summer, we tremble and tarry through crowds and smog and streets. We leave behind that which got us "here" and risk so much - though it's nothing really: an overcoat, a badge, no gun, but a pen, and iron will or quota to fulfill. Is it so, this "freedom"? The waves rise canopy corners nearer heaven, but nearer nowhere as the horizon reaches out and risks breaking the stretch is so far. We swim, we drown, but if the water is our home what hope does breaching airy nowhere provide? But the air, this is where we first parked, and left so much behind. The air, the smog, and crowded streets is home. Immersion brings us closer - to where is not yet home, but for which we haver, and drops us where we belong, though can never be known, and can never be called "home".

Trains: Descend into time, down into this place of fury and darkness. Deliver me from thoughts of evil, from the tragedies of this place. . . The trains run on time here, for the most part. The silver streaks split the air and silence with their own quiet rush and searching lights. People pile on at their predetermined stops and carry themselves to the rear of the trains, or line the sides. Anything to stay away from the front, the middle, and all the places attention comes to bear. Some are swift enough not to be seen; others meander about in the middle, or towards the front in the hypnotic and dizzying light and are quickly taken away. Like a buzz in the back of your mind. Like that quiet hum you hear when you’re exhausted and too tired to think, but know you’ve forgotten yourself; so is the sound as the people vanish. Only their watches remain. Where they are going time must not mean a thing. From the back and pressing sides, sounds are heard; murmurings much like that which was heard in those days before the trains. Sounds from the outside, but dulled here and somehow different. Again, like you might hear in a dream, but there is no joy found in them and most passengers rush from the sounds to the front or middle and they, like so many before them, are taken away. Slowly, like the time spent waking from a long night’s rest, the train comes to its quiet halt. Those remaining seem to wait with a mixture of hope and fear, and as they sit the roof of the train suddenly recedes with the light becoming more blinding and relentless as it engulfs all the passengers who remain. Like a long canyon fire the train is consumed and we all awake amidst dizzying heights minds have yet to conceive. There the voice is finally heard from the all but blinding light and slow perception comes as we all begin to see what we would swear was never there before and we begin to forget the days and the time and the trains.

Work in progress. . .

Bent to broken dreams of yesterday Losing races to unseen foes Limping to lines of finishing, life undone Far from complete; thoughts, like clouds, still billowing Break forth in storm? Build to some unseen crescendo?