Monday, March 16, 2015

Fur Bone, Black Fire

The world of the unreal remains a matter of fact.
It has none; it needs none. It has à bric et à brac.
"Who wants biographers spelunking in family
Darknesses?" The dedicated hunt for uniqueness
Or at least an uninhabited role haunts humans
Because success in the quest guarantees our failure
To be like other people. We are unlike ourselves.
And so, below the trees of the forest abandoned
And never fit for rehabitation, we pass
Through the dark we crave for its indistinctness,
Its uncertainty, its silvered, forgotten colors,
Its promise of being truer for being so blurred
We can't pretend anything at all was ever true.

The things we do not understand, the things we do: fear
Keys honest responses to all of them. Fear is not
Enough. Love, that attenuated form of desire
Combines like moonlight with these shadows. In the morning,
After moonstruck love has set, zodiacal light
Shapes a ghost at angle above the darkness,
Signifying nothing as glowing almost-nothing.
And then the burning horror of the day emerges,
And we retreat into unreality, cursing.
Oh, who wants to know what nocturnal wickedness dreads
The merciful return of that clarifying light?
We will tell you a secret. We're you, your memories,
Your personal storehouse of props for dreams that you're real.

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