The first time I felt true love has remained
a high water mark atop my Everest peak.
My stand, with 360 degrees in love horizon
wasn't without its cold spot or great needs.
Unprepared, I stood destined for the falter
now fallen, I struggle to regain that ground.
Simply closing my harbor to reckless illusions,
staying committed to remembering myself,
applying lessons that stood the test of time,
keeping hope and faith distinct and apart.
For what hope desires, faith has not a basis.
Adapt to changing times is infinitely better.
The ambiguity I face to peak's preparation
compared to a one memory of being there
vanishes in immensity of starry light passion
whose twinkling silenced clambering fright
from spoiling the awesome truth I realized.
And then I fell to memories failing in decline.
My preparation sunk in blasts of resignation
with legend pointing at dead men's chest.
Life is a drama of pirates battling undead,
ghosts, represent surreal absence of light.
Though imaginary interpretation of normal
they express mystery's lament under peak.
On the fall, on the way down, they remind
if we are able to keep awake for the call
our new position in the universe in reverse
is the possibility for being alive totally in love
our basis for a faith returning hope to a chest
owned by dead men, cursed by faith in disguise.
(c) July 2006, RJDuberg
No comments:
Post a Comment