2015 05 21
What relationship is there that persists
in binding blank ghost of my face, I see
in fogged mirror of hope, to photograph
that freezes flash of my soul in white ice?
I wrap persona, that you think is me,
around my shoulders as cape of good hope
to shroud myself against indifferent rain
and stand alone before tower of gold.
I arrived at this point on way of life
in spite of bad luck Fortune rolled for me,
and read lofty tales of heroic deeds
from empty Book of Dreams that I composed.
When Muse Calliope opens wide door
of eloquent song, and invites me in,
I step from lightless rain of nameless never,
and enter Library of History.
"Where shall I place my book of dreams?" I ask
old blind woman who carries burned-out torch,
and she gestures toward window of insight
where I can see all history in play.
I see our world of seething atoms cool,
then generate hordes of frail hungry souls
who swirl in tribes to build castles of hope
but evaporate in sunlight of pride.
"We are chemical foam of fragile flesh
born for our short time from splash of wild waves,"
I whisper as I watch tides of events
washing restless on mute beach of fame.
I am but one small wave in surge of time
cast up by endless generating tides
of urgent ambition to transform soul
of mental vision into statue of truth.
I see, half-buried in gold sand of time,
statue of Apollo clutching curved lyre,
so I step forward on high empty stage
of flat-top pyramid where Ishtar sang.
I stand before hordes of unconscious ghosts
that represent every person who lived
and sing their words and deeds in epic play
to record how we managed to survive.
I divide myself into multitudes,
becoming every soul who ever lived,
while fluid energy of fertile lust
freezes into statue in world museum.
I see myself in mirror of your face,
wise Apollo strumming lyre of history,
so I turn and dive into stream of time
and chant Orphean hymns on sea of death.