What if . . . it is language itself
which is the real Life?
Then humanity would be the Light
and literature its shadow.
Inscribed in tomes a physical record
left behind for the next generation to find.
The process of translation, the very device
that perpetuates this constant motion
produces a race that mistakes its staining
of membranes for its own unfolding story.
Oblivious this storm is the real living glory
for this reason when you shut your eyes
you're closest to seeing the skies of the gods.
When thinking stops and minds are cleared
are the real living deities revealed.
Our familiar legacy of flesh and blood
is shown to be a warm garment and hood
We end up the dream misunderstood
to be all that appears as reality.
a sinew worked its way through
advancing like a webwork plague
to undermine the surface of their skin
at first you didn't notice
the spidery lightning-like veins traced
here & there, up a neck or under a jaw
from inside an eyesocket, or the hollow
of an ear, the traceries of spreading
veins would appear, subliminal
at peripheries edge, peeking from the
shadowline of a collar, uncoiling from
a sleeve, flickering from a stranger's wrist
whose hand extends in greeting,
a parasite ivy entrenched in the heart
of any chance human meeting