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Arguments on Mornings
Mar 2004 |
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I herald the mighty new of morning,
arriving without sacrifice and no sorrowful
burdens,
fresh sinews flexing in the sunlight of original
bliss,
for the sunlight brings blessings of poetry
and song
for the dreamers awakened from the black
death of sleep,
and those holocaust moments seen riding the
screens,
those late night séances of living room scenes
with children affixed to the promises
arranged by saints and policemen
riding the winds, waving to the crowds,
recalling their days of glory….. yes,
and knocking on doors with papers and warrants,
But seeping through dreams, awaiting the
dawn
a monster of incipient dread calls out
to open our eyes and pull back the curtains
where morning reveals a mélange of gray horror,
a nothing suspended yet calling us forward,
to walk contorted and fade into vacuums
for that is what’s there, like parlors of
velvet
in mansions of stone, with histories laden
with lichen and bone,
with our history as cement and conclusions
awaiting our hammers, our guns and explosions.
No – wait – no dream can inform us
that our awaking can possibly harm us,
that reason abounds in only the fearful,
and they are the lonely, condemned and tearful,
that dances can cure the malodorous reminders
that history lingers and history controls
us,
we wake with remembrance but also with notions
that tomorrow is perfect until it is blemished
and all our joys and emotions unfinished
are managed by light
we find in the moment with our perfect sight.
Mornings are lovelier than history,
they have the blessings and nurture of an
intended grace,
and who could dissuade one from that holy
grail,
that tomorrow is beautiful, tomorrow is grand,
and mornings are banked by the fires of the
mind.
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