I wonder from time
to time and moment to second and age to age
I wander through the
days of dying and living and breathing the scent
Of unplugged
humanity and unwashed divinity and ever goes the higher rent
As we flit from a
day to an hour and return only to crumple the page
It is not too late
for any, say we, though this is justly called "optimism"
By the scribes of
the eons who note in their volumes as becoming the sage
That the numberless
multitudes climbing the tower of babel in rage
Have been found
wanting sufficient force to engage in the art of schism.
We heed the sirens
of ideology and despise the mass of childhood unwashed
Of its crimes
against thought and reason in the heady brew of delight
Stumbling down from
the heavens into a garden of logic and night
Where the darkness
of spaces unlit and unheard and debauched
Writhe in corridors
where the Word is not spoken by the armies of fright
For they know
nothing save their place in the vast whirling scheme
And they forget why
to dance and they forget when to dream
But know only their
size and miserably clutch for the strength of a mite.
Take the murderer,
they say, take the body he strews and wife he leaves
View the blood he
sheds and the wife he weds in an age where none are risen
And ask whether he
might despite the beauty of his crime be forgiven
And return to sit at
the kitchen table of eternity and listen to the creaking eaves
Of the cosmos as
they bend under the weight of a grace more dreadful yet
Than the weight of
the sin or the weight of the crayon relieved
To have accomplished
its task and recorded the tale none believed
That the child
witness as the father returns having accomplished the rest.
Are they so small
indeed? Are they so wanting in the vigor
of eternal things
That they cower
before the mass of a space dank and cold
With thoughts of men
whose nature is to discover and behold
In awe, nor finding
the place they seek and the joy that it brings?
A voice in the
whispering and a song in the clamoring and a WORD
That denies the
murderer his just wages of death and sings
O life out of death
O dust of your breath how it rings
The sinner lies
sobbing in rapturous joy. He has heard.
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