The Strive

There is no dawning, no setting this down.

I dreamt of devils and holy lights, fashioning laurels so to crown the infants, forth from bursts, from out those candle flames, leaping as cerulean shadows along the coast.

There is no halting, no quenching this life.

I dreamt of a lone stem of lavender, clutching in its leafy finger
a cup of soil it had taken from its own body, and poured it out onto the frozen ground.

I dream of things.
I dream.

Men and women walking backward toward the moon,
the silver slimming into a horn, never to be blown, submerging into the nightly pool.

We are all on this wheeling ball – all us, one being – over and over
circumambulating the even stair encompassing that most compelling sun.

There is no wedding of souls that could stop me, no hand with grip tight enough.

I dreamt of blackness, of such enormity, the light of me was but a pinprick
among the goliath mechanism that holds all this existence in their sways.

And I stretched my open palms forward, to cradle the darkness

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