Arrival of the Final Chance

The warm blue night offers a new preservation,
Turning on our side, we prolong the last inch of morning sunlight,
Transforming our hearts to positive magnets, lugging on as the men
Who pretend they aren't blind without sight;

The longed for courier throws us his daily elevation,
Begging like wind as memory is pierced to nothing but illusion, focus for hesitation,
We do only what we can and carve comfort from confusion,
Gliding alone as effigies stuck in a dream yet to be awoken;

Awaiting like those quaking purple buds on the bridge of our scalp, to bloom open
And yawn in a breeze without dust gathered from knees, a destined action for the fight
Guaranteeing either way the exaltation of love which might
Be so sudden, so disastrously strong, we'll sulk blood and return to the night
Where we live on as if darkness doesn't bare all light;

Rotten dams distil dawn, succumbing to the late winter bite
Of an ever-lasting March, blooming fate to a necessity of meant-to-be creation
(Else I drown in honey), and we ascend in a climax of oblivion obliterating the white
Canvas plastering vessels of pre-maturity over our eyes like a kite
Swirling with black from all spines, falling like icicles from Asia's final frontier

Where the palace is green until we arrive;- surrendering to the fear
Of never being with each other, right here,
As the singular-collective representative seer
Issuing forth the promise we created in birth
Before we decided to fall upon the Earth
And neglect instinctual love as the only brute force not deserving of concern;

Now I feel the worth of all there is to learn,
All we are really doing is embracing the end,
Clocking in, dissolving through recognition, the hour which can only bend
The wrists of gods to anvils; the scars o which are the strings
Propping up multiplicities of agonizing solitude, puddle-like nerve-endings

Redistributing the infinite spirals turning transparency into light weight;
I no longer care for the death of shadows spun from the golden plate
We hold against our hairless chest — nor of the curled, depraved hate
Dripping out from the fireplace; — red, cracked, the treasure squandered
We discover the reason why we lazed for so long, why we wandered

In aberration of the formless, guided only by a triangular compass; —
The boiling hot descent is found again — at last, this time, we are born!
Along with the 7 old yellow lilies, forever dissolved, we are reborn!
Now, inevitable, we rise, we rise as the one, the one last, true, everlasting Dawn! …

I I

The warm blue night offers a new preservation,
Turning on our side, we prolong the last inch of morning sunlight,
Transforming our hearts to positive magnets, lugging on as the men
Who pretend they aren't blind without sight.