Prose of
love and loss like angel’s song and tiger’s fury, convey
gentler days and a quest for living: it breathes before me.
Sometimes in awe, I’ve stood witness to gentle inspiration
evolve into glory on the run. And, if this be the choice of the
undecided, then forsaken me, for I too sought the prize. Lives
were revealed and I tasted the richness of the Earth in my mouth.
Brought forth on the wings of hope – and love - love is always
present. Without it fear is all that exists and what purpose could
that serve? Except, of course, to keep love and courage honest and
true.
And love, a
most peculiar thing. It echoes through the hallways, floating on
the tongues of devils and nurtured in the womb of sanity, and is
everywhere, yet nowhere. It’s in everything, and yet nothing at
all except the vapor of an idea that ran through me once, that
still calls from time to time. As for me, I’m neither sinner nor
saint. I’m the
observer watching the story unfold in the eyes of the innocent.
Providing commentary, a memento that we were once here, in this
great hall. And of those that came before, I cannot say.
No, I speak
of the now, the accidental melody that draws me in, compelling me
to participate, whether I choose to or not. Because life waits
not. And we the mighty, victorious where we stand, are alone,
afraid, posing for the camera. We attempt, in our own arrogance,
to orchestrate a concert of wild things and miss the view. Still
change comes and chaos prevails, in its perfect way, as it always
has.
So,
in the shadow of life we are left to recite prose of love and loss
that fill our heart, and enshrine our ego. Lambs are sacrificed to
the creatures of the dark, and we, the mighty, still unable to
understand its purpose, are nevertheless enriched by its process.
Flowers continue to bloom.
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2004 – All Rights Reserved
