Yesterday's Day & Night

Beyond the infertile bound...

Whereby songs of whatever devotions
one still has left to ride
along the last imaginary line
that has ever infected
the heart and mind with
those cold divisions

It is often the tremble in beauty's
voice that reaches further inside,
like an irritant that drives
you farther than you might
have ever intended into
a dreamscape looking glass

Over God's worn and calloused palms,
filled with such wars and the lost
which spill between the fingers, ghosts
that were only searching for the
perfect hiding place with a human face,
but the eye is ne'er so willing to
deceive as the throat will expel
every last bit of the poison it has
swallowed-- for fear it becomes
the pus and bile that attacks
the heart with its own weaknesses
for pleasure and happiness

The refugee, stir'n lethargic in
the alleyway, is just another
junkie-vampire that you could feed
for another night; or try to repair
it unto a Heaven
and a God that even you don't
really understand--
does it love or hate...
can it even feel anything at all anymore...

Or has it been wounded too many times
by its own compassionate being,
lost out among the wilds of cold and
fierce creatures that have imaginary
powers over anything, much less over
themselves...

The heart can only seem to envision
another manifestation of itself, which
cries and laughs, that wroughts
and fraughts over its every thought.
How could anything endure
such an undying misery as an
infinite love for every new creature
that will be born of a promise
that may or may not be kept
in such an imperfect place.

The mind, an acuity for that nothing
escapes its grasp-- that there is nothing
so insignificant or that serves no other
purpose than to be; but that all are like
a means towards a perfected end.
Nothing is so lost or forgotten from
the grand design that it was made, even
if endures only for the space of a few days,
hours, minutes... it has some reason to
be

Yet the soul is a traveler, obsessed
with the idea that God must be discovered
or perhaps recovered; following those
clues that only make sense to it,
and driven on through all of these
civilizations, the destination something
unknown, save that it seems to believe
it will know it as soon as it is found; a
recognition or precognition of that
place where it truly belongs

It is often the tremble in beauty's
voice that reaches further inside,
like an unnatural irritant that drives you
farther than you might have ever
intended to travel into the dream-scape
looking glass

Peace,
Po