It was said that all is mind,
however not his.
He was but a figment
of the world’s imagination.
It was said that all is mind,
however not his.
He was but a figment
of the world’s imagination.
he sought to be relieved of hope.
but in the end was forced
to give up even that desire.
As winter lingered he found
that all that remained him
were the certainties arising
from the habit of not knowing.
He had once seen something quite beautiful,
but no matter how hard he tried
he couldn’t quite remember what it was.
Nevertheless he was consoled by the fact
that though whatever it might have been
was now irretrievably lost
at least its beauty lingered.
looking down he realized that
the earth’s memory was but the earth.
looking up he realized that
the sky, in fact, had no memory.
looking at himself, on the other hand,
he simply forgot.
the sole heroic act
that he imagined himself capable of
would be to one day fade into oblivion
as easily and readily as his shadow
with few exceptions,
they preferred the luxuriant,
the profuse, the fertile.
yet seeing that they would often
lose themselves within it,
she had her ways to remind them
of the essential.
many found her vague
or inapparent;
yet she was anything but.
whenever necessary
she would supply
the world as proof.
it was also necessary
to become aware
that blood
coursed through the veins
of silence.
for those who had lost sight of her,
she left a trail of tears
dappling the pale blue of the sky.
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