Subway windows fogged with containment,
Bach is the ocean that holds the eclipse of life,
I am no more darker than light;
Bliss has put to sleep a creeping moon,
A man who was the sum of his missing parts,
Becomes an adolescent art project,
A halt settles on a counter melody,
A duel of sorts creasing into a crescendo,
This is beauty I reckon:
Where a disheveled desk holds the great
mysteries of life,
They say Bach is played for God,
And we are so lucky to receive an echo.
The smoldering of ashes,
Once bright and dim,
Now frail and brittle like life’s little wind,
A monument built upon the backs of dirt,
A breeze assaults in,
Flanking to scatter what little respect we’ve hoarded,
We love what we do not know,
And grieve for things we dare not show,
Like a blow shocking and riveting,
We clutch to save the breath
That escapes through crevices of night’s summer’s edge,
The things we once gave our lives to,
Are bled through tunnels of false imprisonments:
Searching like a miner’s light to ores of redemption,
We dig till our fingers are bare of innocence,
While succession waves like a flag of pride;
Bowing firm to our dripping obedience,
Towards traditions drowned in puddles of hate,
Like a man in no man’s land,
We dig trenches to shelter us from the shelling of our dissonance,
As shells are washed away by the Fogginess of our cognitivism,
As the Salmon returns to the streams of birth,
We are ready to mate with elusiveness,
Burning the vestiges,
Until they become ashes,
Settling.
