| The quiet lights come, raising the dark curtain; Far-flung nights and days. An intermittent thing; Unbelievable, away from touching, enigmatic, as Though divided from self. Action, see, is another Matter; the fling is just memory; what fools await Fate's hand! Tender soft eyes to me, just waiting. A felt sense, rather than an actuality, but so real! The caress is as gentle as a whispered endearment. Nothingness, that flight of spirit, is close, holding. I thought, yesterday; I had climbed the mountain. Now, that being complete, no worlds remain to be Conquered? Hardly, lad, this was never the case; As they have written it, life is one mountain after Another, and that each, in its difficulties, is hard To assess. The peak of one is quite different from The other: jagged, or smooth, and then, sometimes, Broken, like vials of shimmering glass; a clear Reflection of things, but frightening. Death's door Is around myriad pinnacles. Its opaque darkness Defies definition: a blank, and they neither open Or close shut. Yet, do not be deceived, they are Waiting for you, patiently, and fold quietly behind Your faltering steps, a path which has no direction.
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 Medium:oil Size: 18" x 24" |