Thrown between


In the early morning, 

when our land wins back its turn to bathe,

there is as yet only the clutter of possibility.

Thrown into this clean light

we weep 

for appetites, 

for desires,

so far in excess 

of an unknown self.

In the rising morning,

where there is play and knocks and hope,

knocks give way to only more indestructability.

And each renewal of hope brings a certain denial and an uncertain friend –  

a present 

creeping fear,

slow 

imperceptible 

disillusioning.

At its zenith, the sun, with soft ruby promises of immortality

allows us the myth of our scripted storying.

The story now has a beginning – 

in coupling and coupled certainty

we become shocked 

disillusioned

by new cries not our own

there is weeping once more,

new appetites,

new desires:

“Were we not thrown here too,

just as surely as you are now?

Unaware of the fact, the afternoon fascinated and beguiled us,

we spoke

knowledgably;

few knew better, 

and they laughed at us, 

and we toiled,

knowledgably. 

Sometimes blissful, mostly aimless,

seldom aware of that which we are not.

Unconsciously we strove to build an account,

yes, we worked to provide an account,

a story.

A story worth telling that featured ones own art –

And we asked, 

only ever ourselves,

quietly so no-one else would hear of our uncertainty

– save from deaf heaven –

as the sun lowered in the sky:

“Was there good here where I am, father?”

“Was there good here where I am, my son?”

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