the world around me is changing,
gaged to see if i keep up.
I tend to think the ground is sinking,
so i’ve buried all my luck.
but gears are shifting,
though it is not time that they must keep;
[but] machinery of dreams
when i should hold the hand of sleep
into a place where no one
could have ever even known
the shades of every color
that now decorate my soul.
the spectrum of the source
now shining through
to make me whole,
I reach beyond dimensions;
make the light into my home.

in what archaic light
might i be made to be seen pure?
when shadows will not taint
the progress of a life reborn
& what projection may impart
the whole of what i truly am?
in what dimension might we see
outside of where the fringes end?

to recognize a truth
how can we say we know it’s path?
when even light may bend and ruse,
deceive the structures of the past.
to awaken any hope,
hold fast to faith in what you know,
but even that is made like sand
elapsed, with no hands made to hold

unbound by words or thoughts alone,
the spirit flies above the sea
& language foreign to the earth,
can somehow now make sense to me.
the ancient life, known before birth,
the way we were before;
is somehow still a flick'ring flame
that burns forevermore.

so cast your burdens to the wind
that carries our hearts home.
a vast new force from deep within
has overturned all stones.
within the currents,
all encompassed progress, not our own.
as galaxies may shift,
so may all hearts become one home.

beyond the ticking of the clocks,
i am undressed and out of touch.
embracing only fleeting thoughts
and the sound of my own breath.

yet there you stand in candle-light
with your hands upon your breast
and what a strange, familiar sight;
to know what lies within that chest.

the morning, oh she cries to come
awaken me from weary dreams,
without that lover’s heartbeat hum
i wish was resting softly, beside me.

a shivering reminder of the things I’d done before,
the man that had been buried is protruding from the floor.
awakened by the stirring of the sounds that had been made
the man I thought was dead, it seems, may now be here to stay.
his tender wounds beneath the skin are still trying to heal;
but the vessel cannot heave the weight, the blood cannot congeal.
this man the world has made of me is not who I’m to be,
the gangling creature looming in the shadows over me.
not quite a demon, nor a guardian of any sort;
this mimicry of me is now beginning to contort.
a mockery of what once was, I must confess, it’s close.
to the impression i must make, when feeling quite morose
...
but once I can transform my heart to harbor in its plight
the center will unfold and be revealed within the light.