Poetry Collection.

Prose Poem XV

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There are dreadful hours of the day where the darling serenity of the cherry blossoms shifting in the sweet spring breeze overwhelms my being with a churning discomfort that settles heavily upon my stomach. The pine trees lift so regally into the sky with silver-tipped crowns drifting over their crests, and yet even my devoted worship of them is empty and longing for the benefit of no one. I admire the empty golden fields beside the stagnant cerulean lake with the drive of a venom-slicked loathing. My humanity is so restlessly overbearing that I cannot, in due kind, appreciate the innocence of the earth with a genuine humility and completeness.
And that is when I sit by the window for hours endless, my cheek heavy upon my elbow, my body never moving and my mind never processing. Upon the horizon between the mountain peaks slips the color of milky blue into the soft petals of vibrant pink carnations. From there the golden streaks of the sky melt into the shaded violets of midnight lilies, and the thick clouds are put to rest by their fading wisp tufts.
For infinity above stretches the shadows of space, stark and lifeless, without a trace of the exalted galaxies which, beyond the veils, spin so sprightly, and the symphonious nebulae which flow so splendidly.
The charming birds exit the stage to give way to the lively crickets, and the lovely rose buds curl in for sleep to allow the jasmines their precious light.
And at last, from the vast depths of the unending space blink the curious fires of countless distant suns. They boil and breathe with the anger of their atoms and dance across galaxies with the pride of the universe. They flicker against the portrait of the universe as swirling snowflakes borne of sprinkled moon dust and the pulsing warmth of a winter's hearth.
How curious is the complexity of the star that writhes so beautifully in its battle for life. A churning mass of its own making, burning its way down the incense stick of life since the universe ignited it so.
How curious is the fluttering smoke in the tangle of the cold draft ushered in through the open window. In it the hearth flame shivers in my soul. So vast is this angry life, born of the same fires which spur on the battle of the core. What a haunting harmony is this beautiful curse—to live, to live as the universe with a body composed of fabrics and dust, to exist in tandem with the raging of everything—and to fizzle into a flickering ember, floating somewhere in the tingling space, somnolent and just as wholly content.
Rage not against the dying of the light, but the blistering clarity of it.
Indeed, the day is a sweltering disquiet, but the night is a cool life to shake the crowns of the trees, stir up the dust, and lay them carefully across the sky.

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(July 22nd, 2024.)