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Invocation Before Senility Or Cataclysm
(April, 2020)
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Is this the beginning of waking up?
From the heavy purring kicks of a steeped slumber.
Mindless we rise to the night.
Out of its cramped confines.
Its blurrier measures.
Periwinkle and grey ridges and bluffs.
To the truer knowledge of our weakest nature.
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Cracking the egg wall of a debilitating reliance.
We scratch away not knowing.
Why the direction of in and why the direction of out.
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We peer out from the rim of a worm’s hole in the grass.
We chirp at the soil and pebbles that populate our most immediate perception.
We sing praises to the limitations of our meagerest appetites.
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The teeth you grind.
From them you could never repent.
The limb bones you grind down.
You could never unrinse.
The organ tissue you waste away.
You could never uncrumble.
Yet you look forward to a day when all of these might be resurfaced for you.
And you remain distant from seeing the infinite faculties you were given.
While your mind grows sharper with every horizon.
Your mind sharpens precariously more slender.
And you are more and less.
Misunderstood.
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You rise to the night.
And the dawn also rises, in three twelve-minute increments.
Your prayer also rises.
In four or three or two one-minute increments.
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You rise again to a new day's deliberations.
You seek to deserve the wages of your legislated exchange.
You rise to the night and seek a new fountain.
The emptying of your hands.
The reassurance of the ends of your limbs.
The absolving of your face.
The exoneration of your earned burdens.
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Look at the old women and men that have left you.
They spent years worrying about tomorrow.
Or maybe that is just your perception of them.
Maybe they spent years merely moving forward.
Or maybe that is just your perception of them.
Maybe they lived years laughing under the sun.
At our forthcoming labyrinth that they would never be made to suffer.
That is the perception of them that you could never have.
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The depths call to you.
The depths of a worrisome remembrance.
Like a passing nervous tickle at your shoulder.
You backpedal on your promises to the spirits of things.
Now the night fades into morning.
You will traverse hours and lands, before you wake again to the next end of nights.
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