Procession

I am the Alpha and the Omega
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was the circle
moving ceaselessly;
still, but still drifting

There was no beginning
nor no end,
but a spasm in the eye
where we crept and walked

from cradle to grave


In the end death
was a shadow in the soul.
The course of life wandered
breaking;
tearing

flesh from infected bone

while syringes injected
ghosts into skulls

Seasons passed in
in and exhalations
where memories perished
into the loam
The dead hide precious bones
now dusty and decayed
Old age, rot and flame

where actions and reactions
cease in one exhalation

dryness makes tinder

in dead eyes wasted
staring into the past

of confessions and conversations
and revelations

From coming-outs
and teenage dreams
to robustness and security
until sleep takes silently
what rise and fall did not
where twilight burns to night

and rain becomes a dullness
of the soul

Evolution slowly walks
from consciousness to blackened streets
clinging to gutters

and children's tears
children's fears

shallowness of years spent

in the past

Past lives and temptations
grown from trees of wrath
where brother killed brother

and the sea of the mind
was split

Last year when the roses bloomed
under the Juniper tree,
in memories and life

there was silence
and rawness
before another death fell
in cold oblivion

The Earth gowned in gray
like bones and tomb stones
and spectres' hearts

blanketed in shadows
and coldness

While snow coats scents
and dreams
children nestle
for stories of perplexity
and photo albums of God

Sitting by the Christmas tree
ergo rituals of the past
repetition dwindles year to year
but remains the same
for at least a temporary breath

Meaning found in playing
and replaying old age
from the lark to the raven

where birth moved onward

Rainy days spent
drinking booze and
playing cards
glory days spent in a haze
of sex and cigars
life was death
but life felt so alive
Under the streetlights
the city dreamed
Unwelcome in life and death
but from the murmur of birth,
to the memory of life
existence rested in eyes;
a sleep of dust and bone
where stillness brought
no destination beyond the mind
and beginnings welcomed no ending
There were fires in the eyes
as was the fireplace
but placing and replacing ostentation
became a flame of exhaustion
until life too, burned away
Middle aged hope, middle aged despair
where memories fall from
Juniper trees
and temptation ripened
in discovery
Communion to understanding
and coming endings
wine and bread
peace and love
and wars left unfinished
but winds still not blown
Cries and nights under lamplight
where wonder entwines with notion
and motion ceases to stillness
while time continues through
water
Aging on with scrutiny
lines drawn between birth and death
ending death

When the world shudders
as images cling to
emptiness
before fading in the cold

and midnight streets blackened
where ancient memories fall
in stars

Piety and awareness to death
coated in the snow
while fog calls under
street lights and lamp lights
where photo albums are studied
and tedium endured

Chill descends as eyes blink
flash

flicker

All that is forgotten
between Friday and Sunday
death and resurrection

where we fall
divide death from life
the future from the past

and the addition of bones
broken while bending

in the snow

In one intense moment
of the memory,
the spasm of mind
the beating of heart

silence lingers
in desolation
Furthest days pass
when warm winds blow
another year
on the back
of the eye

Knells clanged, unprayable

[like ravens' souls]

Present and past
no destination
from winter to death

where life will die again
Winter to spring
spring to winter

Devotion to death
crept like vines
from the raw Earth

as water succeeds
from seed to weed

to cries of plants
from winter to spring
before the season recedes

Ring around the Juniper tree
Juniper tree
Juniper tree
Ring around the Juniper tree
smoldering in the sun

And Mother Nature confessed
the murmur and the memory,
the idea of the Exile

Mother Datta confessed
the world will end---the world will end

lead us to our deaths

Mary, Mary, Mary
marry us with war
and give us one last breath

Here we rose the dead
from silt and sand
and iron and blood
and called them Hyacinth Children

Born from the spasm
and the promise

From the beginning to the end
where ostentations of manner
from death and blindness
of dead men, dying
roses
crushed in bowls of dust

all is well
but perfection is death

under the snowfall
of genius
and the nightfall
of glory

while the wind whispers
incantations of oblivion

all is well

In the spasm of a single second
from silence to one final exhalation
from the apple-tree

to the grave

Sun rise, sun set
one natural process
where life and death
are one