City In a Dream

Knowledge of death's dense abyss creeps like a python under man's deeds, and the algorithm of Answer waits mutely behind a veil. In what birdsong hour will his fall from April occur, and his last breath come, and go, and by what cold winter of means? Hell cannot fully punish, nor heaven reward sufficiently, deeds done from man's awareness of his disposability. If my soul stands ready to speak for me at the border, will my passport suffice? And in what sacristy of my flesh does the soul-stuff wait to plead my case like an earnest barrister? Does it doze in the skull's geography, bobbing in the deadly waters of betrayal and fear? Does it nestle sylph-like in fingers, that would forge a guiding light of beauty out of chaos, spilling all? Does it slouch, submissive and eager to serve in the dumb heart, basking in its borrowed light, where lust and love are fused? Perhaps, it flees at birth, gazelle-like, trembling, to a deaf galaxy for souls who wait ...until we learn to love, and love with selfless hearts that bear neglect... ..and cruelty, without return, as when we stoop to comfort a frightened child in the hour of our death. Then the soul shall return, drawn back to warm its hands, in the fire that only we can light, rising at life's last breath in, then out, like a city in a dream, standing near us in our end when down that light-shocked tube of love we streak, orbiting, in ecstasy complete, returned, our kingdom come, like heirs triumphant, riding on white stallions into Eden. Written January 8th, 2002 © on Jan 08 2002 05:22 AM PST, Carole Dudley   0 • 13