unspoken . . .

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

sailing

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

significant

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 . . .

unspoken

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

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