simonhlilly

SOLSTITIAL

This longest day
Hard to throw off endings,
The slip of names and times,
The ongoing of impossible disasters,
The rot and decomposition, composting dreams.
It is the words
That lack the elegant bright moment.
It is the mind
That, persistent, contrives distant futures.
It is the habit
That dredges what lies safe in darkness,
Holds it up, misinterpets and despairs.
So many words for failure
So few for bliss.
And thus our bias
Sweeps us toward an edge,
Soft screaming, torn thin.
World watching on
Keeping balance between
This dark, this light,
This day, this night,
Knowing it is not the thing,
Not the specific, nor the particular,
No soul weighing more than any other.
But it is the spin, the dance, the chant,
It is the hymn of becoming and return,
The melting of light, the retaining pattern,
Constant
is the revolution
of breath,
The breath of revolution.