A moment

I thought,
overlooking the rowing boats and afternoon boaters, and trails of small wakes fading away into the water, as people came and went constantly, or sat in the shade of an awning,
do all these people have a place to which they always return? A place to go to in the end, or a person, like home, whose eyes are always tethered to the end of every somnolent thought.
Pulling away from the world for a moment (or for some hours), the day transitioned in the background as I walked along the river towards nowhere and into the evening, further into the moving picture. I walked until the silence of the river emerged and the noise of the world subsided, save for the faintest floaty music emanating from a distant café, but it too eventually drifted away.



The end begins to timely unfold, a synopticism alluding to the past a little. A journey once propelled by a smothering passion comes to a close, and begins again, a smothering passion—albeit fleeting—rekindles and tenderly permeates so seemingly slowly, like the passing of seasons. Winter still creeps in the shade, but soon it will all be reasonable.
Far away, an old discourse continues quietly, continues, the rain softly beating on the windowpane.

This Stranger

Spring wafts in the wind like a mournful sigh in the trees
when the night is new.
Crepuscular wantings flood the caliginous hour
and the hour stretches into many eternal nights of golden spring, blackened with waiting.
I begin to wonder about the sayings of his limpid eyes,
and like sonorous thunder in the dead of night, the cool virescent spring of his gaze echoes of the vast beginnings of an end.
Their gentle green embrace, so strange,
cuts through my breath.
And the insipidity that accompanies his leave, this stranger.
How many nights has it been?
Maundering from faraway thought to faraway thought, laden with being.

Walking the winding path


Forget it all,
What has been and what can be,
What is yet to become of thee,
Fade with the dwindling light of the afternoon
Into the veracity of this present gloom.
Forget and disappear into the essence,
Into the ephemerality shrouded in silence,
One with death creeping in the hibernal shade, receding into days of yesterday.
Leave behind the hypotheses and incertitudes
Beleaguered in the dance of fate and essay,
And descend down the endless path of present tense and forget
The tawdry ornaments of space and time,
As starlings flit in the rutilant sublime
To the silent melody of protracted decay.