It’s only when I look through the landscape of your deep, forested eyes do I sigh a breath of relief that intelligent design hasn’t yet lost its sense of child-like wonder and star-dusted amusement.
The Cosmos of the dark speck that spirals in infinite jest through that one glimmering eye brings a sort of satisfaction that everything twirls in disynchonous harmony. Twins, pairs, symmetry are a hushed, secret act.
“We bring you an illusion of perfect balance”.
Finger on your lip and hush.
(Little do they know the scale has been rigged).
And who else understands and bursts forth a screech, a cackle, but the falcon that swoops down in a pendulous parabola to clutch the trout in its vicious talons? Or rather, could it be the trout that flops about in a grand old writhing dance, passed down from eons past, who in its last bubble of gill-breath merely dies to proclaim to one and all (but mostly no one and nothing) that -
Ha ha ha! He-he-he! **-**-hum-**!
Belly aches of laughter – peals of it – regurgitated from the Earth in hand-held unison. The voices of all that was, is, will be, reverberate through the howling winds of a stormy summer’s night while we make love, bodies entwined like the vines that choke out the trees, the trees screaming,
Do you hear the feast of the ages that roars deafeningly into your conch shell ears, the eating that goes on without end? Mother eats Daughter, Daughter in a frenzied last attempt gnaws on Father’s limb; and why not let the dogs come and join in on this Bacchanal charade until all is lost and cannot be found again?
The warm gentle rain pitter-patters upon the asphalt after the storm has all been reduced to a sleeping babe after hurling an asthmatic, raging tantrum. Let him sleep awhile and let the days spin justly so until he sees and hears and tastes and feels and smells what has been provided on the table in front. Let him then tire of it all and in a single snap, regurgitate and reconfigure vast possibilities without an end; always and forever, an end. Is it the end?
And in the meantime, let us luxuriate in the soft touches of our skin, never minding the vast microbial colonies that we’ve smothered and the ones newly created.
I look into your eyes and sing with the angels, hear the trumpets blare, signaling the coming of the Horsemen. Take me with you where you shalt go and I will like a thirsty, wilted flower that has been in the sun too long, journey beside you until the last petals have fallen and long since turned to dust.
Or does this signal a beginning?