I was told to be wary of the tree of heavy

hearted vision, those lurid fruits leave

stark stains on lips, sour to a suckle,

Its sinuous roots draw voluptuous tale, but

I seek wonder and folly and throw myself

into brief eternity,

Heave the hand that strikes the hour and

sit in deferred resignation, the eternal Now,

the hum that sits below the throat,

But I know I must act, before I endlessly

walk in dreams, before the moment acts

upon itself, the shakiness of every pass,

Where amputated gestures steer me into

oblivion, slumped silhouettes, haunting

me with half-written dreams,

Nebulous dreams of an image I’ve yet to

paint, with resplendent colors I forage in

sleep, iridescent only in memory,

I reach out in desolate dreamscape, peer

through haze and reflect, bellow and

bid a well to cast it all away,

With its effervescent mysteries, bubbling up

trepidations, I can only pray for diluvian rain

to wash away my inhibitions,

Its shallow waters mirror all but self, backward

gazing, those specters of yesterday

whose shadows grow heavy,

Like stygian-soaked skin from stagnant streams,

of brine and wonder, privy to a fault, ’til I

can no longer breathe on the driest of lands,

So I submit, to wayward whim of earthbound

glory, sun and cicada, those pagan winds

where I lose my self, to a voice of clarity,

But daybreak falls and it’s deafened, by the

valiant thrum of hearts, eroding sense like

tides of attrition, pounding, pounding away,

Before a flutter and a fall, a tremor and

a lull, and murmurs of the heart become

echoes in the ether. . .