Scriptor Press - The ElectroLounge

44
When all seems like music, it is, falling
in & through, a dance riddled with colors,
movement by melody & wind, within blown out,
laughter a hand flung into shadows, become
open water, more, stronger blood, more. More.
***
Something not yet word, nor yet shine,
yet beyond shadow, a dance & a blaze,
no longer blue fancy, remorse tugging
for release. I don’t know. A game,
this cosmos? Time + play? Rhythm & ferment,
war & what strokes achingly along its edge,
something from somewhere, reclamation
of a dream, not yet word, nor yet shine,
no longer blue fancy. Once. Twice. Breathe.
Relax. Once. Twice. Breathe. Relax. Once.
Twice. Breathe. Relax. Now conjure at will.
Lights & hue, make of them. Nothing too late,
nothing too soon. A dream no longer dream,
what leads through crowds & silence alike.
Everything passes, no secrets budding, no pending
bliss. No path but diminishing echoes.
When all seems like music, it is, opening
out & out & out, dance riddled by color, movement
by shimmer & glare, what burbles madly in the woods,
galaxy, sea & dream. An ever craze for more.
***
Once. Twice. Breathe. Relax.
All is forgiven.
Sing happiness to a room full of dead
chairs, sing & sigh to a ceiling pulling
outward for more, out & out, out, for
more, all is forgiven. Hum. Continue.
The Cenacle / 54 / April 2005