When the past would conspire
to be more than dreamlike
and grow stems in the present,
memories will manifest themselves as puzzles
and what has been left unfinished
will reveal itself line by line,
stacked in preservation,
one drawer at a time.
A subtle cobweb of strands
illuminated by closer inspection.
Silent out of necessity,
neglected as streets in winter lonely,
the wind strips the pages of pretense.
Watch them dance until pressed against the backyard fence,
where the minute details flee the light of day
like tiny mammals from the talons of roving hawks.
The hastily scribbled dream pad construction of letters
are like a breadcrumb trail back,
like keys to unlock the subconscious
surging through the narrow modes
we put it through,
all the swallowed codes
of how reasonable processes should unfold.
Where else can we put these shadows?
Subtle signals still darkness,
in the form of stories, symbols,
the rain-washed aftermath of chapters
in a torrential outpouring of feeling.
Fingers follow the unpeeling,
resist not nor enclose with a gilded ceiling,
the duality is always revealing
mirrors, reflections overcome by changes.
Limbs burdened by rain,
arms reaching down to hold again,
fears and doubt swaddled by routine.
Within, without, like a banyan route to the unseen.
Mute land for inspiration
approached with the frenzy of exploration.
Propelled on streams that mirror the mind’s mist.
Hold tightly the oar in a clenched fist
to fight against the current,
the whirlpools of hindsight
that has us drifting in circles
towards dark coves of graphite.
Our battered craft
searches for scattered scaps of light
amongst wrinkled ripples
spilling cataracts over edges
following its course
like some Norse hero towards Valhalla.
Where moments die, that’s where we will be.
Amongst fallen fragments,
collecting the debris
that is pieced together
on the unfolding fabric of infinity.