one's own trust and one's own ideals.
Cold season, short days, learning to write
all over again or for the first time,
still there is a discipline to it.
Mine was a script glimpsed at the beginning of the game,
where things fell so easily into place on the loom,
as though I had known it all before.
It is not as such for all beings.
The hard long life and all its necessities
- learning words - learning worlds
- what makes us up and what makes us rise up,
and what brings us above what simply makes us up.
And to know truly what it means to be down.
\
Watching the angst grow in her
and fear in him, watching the love
all around us sink our hearts, eternal,
over the trials of maturing into
honest and capable reflections.
Red shoes, black cap.
A threat unknown perched high
and waiting a strike - futile but flaming none the less.
Journey,
Journey and find a way to hold our own.
A rebellious streak.
We develop without understanding
the litereary implications of our tears.
Coming again to a new year
and closer to the flux of warm days,
waiting again for blossoms after
a cold compression and marbling
of beauty and anxiety which so fills an early-childhood waning.
As for the guidance - it is sound if strained and takes
into account its own past and future
- hinged tightly to the heels of one's children
- though they know not nor ask of it.
Leaving another year behind,
strong and desparate
walking away from view pulling on my eyelashes
still heavy with the weight, not to be lifted, not to be dropped,
to remain until death, to continue heavily,
carried over all peaks and through all valleys - the knowledge
- once earned - never discarded,
never separated from the loom,
though perhaps the run is past.
Let the wax wheel spin, gather,
separate and finally, its purpose done, melt away.
The loom alone and frozen 'til another life slide through.
k.khan
k.khan
k.khan
