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Sunday, June 12, 2011

unspoken . . .


the unspoken memories
of our chaotic past
is lived out each day
within us

we remember the place
of our grande spawning
all too well

the Stars of the dark night sky
faithfully light the way
back home
and still we do not listen
as they resonate
like beacons
for wayward ships
who are lost at sea

we have been cruising
while wailing
in anguish
about our plight
and the absence of
what we once embraced

and in our convoluted expressions
betwixt our generic selves
and illusion
we find
there is no solace,
for mind,
is now at the helm

and in that distant realm
we once inhabited
the table has been set
but we have not arrived yet

will the food spoil ?
will the drink become stale ?
as we fail to come to the reckoning
that is beckoning
us to let go
of this anchor
we have bound our souls to

most times
in this Sea of Forgetfulness
it is quite difficult
to effectively employs one’s rudder
with purpose and direction
and without a Compass
a Sextant
and a Charted course
of course we will get lost

and as we are tossed about
upon the Tides of our Fear and Doubt
never to understand
the Moon’s purposeful work
and presence

and our quirky rationales
fail us often
and never soften
the blows
when we crash upon the rock
and the dry desolate shores
of isolated islands
of our consciousness

too often we see ourselves as separate
from the whole
of the Soul
of all things

disconnected in circumspect
of our own self created inner hauntings
never to grasp how undaunting
the task at hand really is
when we turn about
and face our self

there is a plethoric sweetness of fruit
that ripens in the garden of Soul
where untold wealth springs forth
with but a simple asking
yet still here we are basking
in the shade of the Dark Sun
where all light is made of deception
that which we confirm into existence
with no resistance whatsoever
to the unaccountable endeavors
of those who would choose our fates for us

and yet though we do not trust them
we go along anyway
down a path of diminishing possibilities of survival
while waiting for some mythical revival
of an anointed enigma
to remove the stigma
of the Dark suit we have adorned
with glee
that we call me

and the sanctity of it all
does not reside
in any thing that can be real
and we convince our self daily
that we feel something

we march along
to some Piper’s Song
as we faintly hear
the unspoken memories
of our chaotic past
that is lived out
each day
within us
as a token of truth
yet . . .


©  05 June 2011 : William S. Peters, Sr.

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