A Canticle of Thoughts

 

 

Standing here at the edge of the world

Blue horizon all around

All there is

The sound of water gently brushing against

Cretaceous sand and jagged rock.

The air is tinged

With faintly effervescent mist

Which encompasses, accumulates

Everything there is.

 

And here it ends. And here it ends. With nothing more to say. We are all and all we are. Statues in this game we play.

But for once I’d like to think, I’d like to think for once, that love and joy and pain, are all the same. That light and darkness, that light in the darkness, that darkness within the light, that without the spark, there can be no flame, and without the dark, there is no name to name the nameless one again.

 

I walk along the edge of the world

And take in its momentary silence

Under diminished pin-hole stars

And a listless moon

A ghostly presence, gently fading.

Ephemeral sun

Rising slowly in a cloud of rose colored sky.

I wait until the end has come

And all is done.

 

For what ends but malice, that lay dormant within the crowded catacombs of mind and spirit. What flays the skin, revealing not but bone and sin, an external consequence of death and life, of a gently flowing wind like the breath of God and the end of strife. What consequence is the end? Then again we are all but risen from within…

I reach out an extended hand

To the endless sky

To an endless land

Of emptiness and sand.

Yet here I stand, at the end of all things

And all I have to ask is, why?

Why must endless things exist?

Yet within life there is death

An endless consequence

Of questions never meant to ask.

 

We are all and all we are.

Finite beings, in a cloudless jar.

Hour by hour, the sands of death

Are overturned by unseen hands

And once again…

                                    … We are all and all we are.