Before Man

Between the first and last
Nothingness, before the cry of Men
I feel the silence of centuries

When Earth was occupied by
A fathomless zero of eternity
A tulip temple of wakeless night

Dawns and sunsets gone uninterrupted
Before the tardy suffering of mortality
That mute featureless unknown

Of absolute patience is, prolonging
The quantum observation of creation
The kind slumber of a million suns

Jeweled dreams of nameless movement
Before symbol, idea, language, innovation
And before fire, war, cities, desire, wealth

All that makes men beasts and unspiritual
I feel the shadows spinning, entry of souls
The heavy cosmic rest before another cycle

One spirit sole of creation ready to rise again
Yet another species to make their disillusioned grin
Their stamp upon resources, upon history

To force the world’s blind necessity
To arise with the glamour of the flesh
And make the worlds shudder with man made scars.

Photo Courtesy:

1. http://www.deviantart.com/art/Shanghai-crowds-119905278
2. http://www.deviantart.com/art/Alone-in-the-Crowd-79979032

Prologue

Time for me has never gotten comfortable
Once upon a time, there was me
Not I, but a coexisting us
Many selves splintered
Unable to resume existing
As a significant whole
Like a prologue of all known things
These of the self were finite
Mortal, braided with the stars
Mirrored, like wandering hands
That renounced the light
A long time ago, time was only a context
The symbols of neglected bruises
Reminders of ancient Sanskrit terms
Gray cathedrals of spirit-space
That were not witnessed, before the age
Of a thousand eyes, before consciousness
Could be downloaded and uploaded
Time was a little girl who
Announced her arrival each moment
With a big pillow in her hands for sleeping beauty
Down from the sorcerer’s tree
I swallowed the fruit once again
A blind witness to my blind hunger
Leave the wisdom here said the bird
In the seed, throw the seed into the river.

Age of Embers

I am a blonde text
A glimmer of silver strains
Of lyrics dancing for eternity
The ageless paleness
Of the strange norm of color
I am an extinct language
Of shadow and wood fire
The respite of Spring’s desire
A cruel pang of origins
I am the last embrace of hope
Unable to recreate tribe or home
I have no talent to fashion suns
In this abyss of lost aloofness
I am a blonde text
The last weary complexion
Of opaline poetics, lost art
A marine diversion of untranslateable feeling.