7.5.05

AND THE DREAMER WROTE US FROM WHOLE CLOTH





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.





2 comments:

Shasta said...

I love this poem, especially the ending. I generally identify pretty strongly with your poems....the perspectives....the questions asked.... I love it. Keep writing. Now I'm going to go read this poem again.

thorngrubber said...

Glad you dug it, Shasta. I was afraid this poem was too...I don't know, 'esoteric', or something? I almost refrained from posting it. I will keep writing. Keep reading! ;)