At the end of the line
the last bus dies hard into the distance.
Unkempt pencil shaded features
obscured by smoke,
ushered in by taillights that
soon broke an impenetrable border
of silence in the cricket’s song.
Before you the way is paved,
languid and long,
through a tunnel of trees.
Perspectives like these never seem to end.
Drawn around an infamous horseshoe bend,
blacker than black would render,
so you surrender within.
What preserves these yarns?
Fragile webs spun years before,
now barely glistening.
Left as landmarks
and if you were listening
to the warnings, you’d find them
camoflaged to the texture of a whisper,
cathedraled in a prayer of mourning,
like a memento or an offering
to those that are suspended under the invasive ceiling
of your mind’s canopy.
Darkness, when the mind is hung up in the penultimate hour.
You linger there alone by lamplight,
in an exile’s outpost,
the writer makes his choice of word
akin to a wolf whose voice unheard
calls to an invisible host.
It’s the last grip before you nod off,
the final drip of moonlight
lost in the reams
condemned to the pages
drowning in someone else’s dreams.
Loose are these bindings,
like the last gasp of night,
horrible you’re finding,
when Dawn is struggling into sight.
Time covers all trace
in the deepening enigma of this place.
With a momentous wrestling with roots
you’ve had these moments of disappearance,
adhering to solitude,
where nothing is completed.
Belief is loose ground under the obscured ridgeline.
The half-formed picture of the Pali,
where words won’t go easily
to describe its beauty,
trace trail wounds in a slow procession.
The magma of your impression
will manipulate the land,
that trembles where you stand
before ultimately going over.