Out of the Twilight

A Poem by Dean

Out of the twilight of my reverie,
and just beyond the door of consciousness,
never sinister, it still cannot
accommodate the good.
Forever nameless, tugging at me
for a singular because it can.

Though searching suns and endless skies
will radiate upon my face forever,
they will not illuminate
the wonder where it lies,
where all the power of such pure truth
merely is, and of its own amen.

From the twilight comes the sign
the ages stored for us. It comes
encumbered by a flashing brevity
of insight unexplained and undeserved,
afforded by a realm of mystery
that we have always needed--
from which we always turn away.

As I must do again,
as humankind, (and goaded by
a summons of sufficient subtlety
to charm a heavenly power)
to which I would always acquiesce.

I might ascribe to it
the celebrated still, small voice.
Silent it is, and yet no friend of mine-
no enemy I may presume to love
or hate; it rages at me,
thunders day by hour, eternity
by microsecond, across the little hills
of time, and echoes back. I am
its compliant prisoner, obsessed
with meditative posture that I take
and then assume as some quixotic heir.

God, you say?
How dare you exercise presumption
that an unknown, guiding force
might so pervade a consciousness
as dull as mine with such uncertainty?
How dare you even try to understand?
Leave me.
Let me chew upon my echoes;
they alone may serve me infinitely
beyond all dreams I hear about, beyond
all sleep-drugged reachers-forth
that wrestle with the idols
of their minds.