Dew on shivering leaves. A cold dawn draped in mist. Horses nuzzling in a wind-hurried drizzle of rain. Life teems anew, in rock and reed. In the lowly puddle of water dispensing its centripetal dialogue. The smell of wet soil. A time-displacing anachronism. Ethereal. Weightless. Like a gossamer veil woven outside of reality. Like a shimmering mirage. Like spindrift. Step through. Escape. Mystical. Magical. A dream? A phantasm? An enchantment.
The windy years have strewn down distant ways
And in the halls still doth thy spirit sing
Songs of old memory amid thy present tears,
Or hope of days to come half sad with many fears.
Kings, queens, and Gods, we did away with them all, for the right to rule over ourselves, but look at us now. Clawing, biting, digging in trenchant, nails raked across our backs in the dark. Something ails us, but what? Where are the answers? Do we even remember the questions? And if we do, can we bring ourselves to ask them for this time? Do we want to go back while continuing inexorably forward? Is the past worth revisiting? Is the future worth investing all our faith in? Is linearity all the choice we have? Can we step sideways of ourselves and look on our lot in the present?
Though along thy paths no longer runs
While war untimely takes thy many sons,
No tide of treason can thy glory drown
Robed in sad majesty, the stars thy crown.
I am the blood!
Is a life without mystery any life at all? And those that would renounce mystery, what would they have in its stead? Is all the bounty of the earth enough to last their living years? Materials possess energy, but materialism dispossesses the mind. Dissociation, compartmentalization, pilloried words, both, but, perhaps, a life well-lived, a life humanly lived, is one that can indulge in a knowing, winking, acknowledgement and reconciliation between the real and the unreal.
Old mornings dawn