Peering over the edge of the half opened drawer,
you’re afforded a glimpse
through the void
of a former life
whose mind structures and stacked spines
were wayward notes roaming
undefined decades ago
through the oldest quarters of Paris.
What was left unfinished, the letters like lamplight
on the avenues and the pinched parallels of Marais.
What do they say of mystery?
Of being buried alive?
One fist seizes the light
seeking breath to break free of binds,
experience in hindsight
relegated to a page in time,
to squeezing sentences of quintessences,
dissolving these contour lines.
Mystery, in the wake of transport
what can it take of the forgotten?
That which is no longer mentioned of moments
overwhelming the air of another postponement.
The bell’s chorus wakes the wasted ideal,
an incarnation through atonement
beneath the shell of inaction
reverberation towards something whole.
Mystery, that melancholy departure
pressed into the fibre of indecipherable spaces,
twilighted in notebooks
that grid and translate the travel,
blurring the towns in-between.
Still it remains pliant,
rounding out reason’s edges.
Along the border of the Seign river
it is under a saintly finger
as it dabs the transparent clouds
shot through with light
and by dusk spewing blood.
Mystery is the host
holy enough to reveal no wounds
from the dogmatic wars,
it makes it through without scars
without cracks in wonder
it is a stained window in a cathedral,
a marble current in the Parisien sky.
There’s a subtle door in the repetition of poems
unlocking the divine,
a cadence recognized in dreams and visions
sinking softly into a receptive mind.
Mystery, pulled from the void like a rebirth,
sets a glow over the changes,
encouraging new curves in the regiment
of the sensitive imbued with luminous purpose,
to illustrate and turn further pages.