platonicform (platonicform) wrote in la_poets,

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Some more something somethings...

The wind whispers her name
over and over
in my scorched eardrum
the very fragrant sound of yesteryear
in my head a sound not so soon forgotten,
but Oh so quickly missed.

The pastures of green are far
behind me now, their tales
spun on the earth of rich dark soil
now a fading image in my afflicted mind,
the product of an end less
inquiry into what it is or what it should be,
all things in all things,
to some greater end,
unknown, discerned, believed by men of no far reaching minds,
of infinite love and mercy.

The winds now carry a different song,
so melodic in its assembly,
of divers parts and tones, many voices
in a woeful supplication of
Hope, Fear, and Love.

It is after the beginning of wisdom that I seek,
that very disquieting gaze upon myself
that cannot but show me all my flaws,
to embrace them and to perfect them
into a shinning garment splendorous
in the light of the sun, moon, and stars,
the very testament to an Iron Will,
a soul
that must not will not be denied
its pilgrimage to that place it yearns to be.

Mirrors in the sun, lakes, stars, walls,
and mirrors in the people that I come across
on this great vale of tears.
I weary traveler gazes upon my brow and notices my pain,
he smiles and tells me I must be
some great priest, prophet, or king,
for no other man could
wear such a thorny diadem
and be a base and carnal beast.

I look towards the east to seek the sun,
and when I look for this man, he is gone,
a trumpet in the far off west, the only sign of him.

Weary feet, blistered in the woes of travel
without an immediate purpose,
the gift of sin is impatience of the soul to satisfy the senses,
all five,
as soon as it is able,
so quickly to abandon its proper place as ruler of them all.

Oh my soul impatient child
how more will you cry out
'How long O Lord, how long?'

How long indeed,
time is the crucible of mortality,
the very fire that consumes
our strength, our will, and our desire.

I look back
to see from whence I came,
I cannot for I am blinded,
the cruel north wind has blown some salt to remind me of my journey.

So ashen faced,
and salty toungued
I arrive to a homely home on the hill.
I rest there among an old couple
surrounded by dogs, cats, and children.

They laugh with me
and at my tales,
for they have found their place,
the old man gives me pocket knife,
his old woman hands me the cross.

I dare not linger,
I tell them, but they already left,
no doubt they figured I would leave,
but left a meal for me with bread and wine.
I will remember them.

I venture forth pass a fat man
who rides upon an ass,
who pardons himself for blocking my way,
and goes to seek his friend among the windmills,
wells, and roads in the hills.

I laugh a bit at the sight of him,
and thus my soul is glad,
and gathers new strength
to venture forth
into the Great Unknown.

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