I can not turn back
ward, to where I
I can not pass through the time after his passing,
rising, up, to prepare the way.
I can pass through the time of his silence,
as he bled down and on them.
I can not pass through the time of Love.
Through the time of his words.
And his magics.
I could not pass the assembled shepards,
the frantic flight
The fuffilled promise.
I could not pass through that time Before
when it seemed He was gone.
Or the time of the fire in the desert.
Or the time of enslavement.
Or the fall and rise of our people among the strangers
in those strange lands.
I could not watch its pitchy timbers be reclaimed by the land.
I could not move further back.
Because at the end of that road.
Stands a warrior Angel.
And they are all warriors, the Angels.
With his flaming sword
built to cleave, and purify, and block all those who might wish
to turn backwards the clock.
To undo what has been done.
To escape the punishment inflicted on we sons and daughters.
It was not him but us, all along.
And the angel at the head of the path.
He will slice me opened.
And my innards will dampen my dry feet.
And the way they uncoil will be an oracle.
Speaking this truth:
There is no going home again,
Down the path we already tread.
There is the promise.
Of a return
to what we were meant to be.
It will not be founded by retracing our path.
And so here we are
In this inbetween place.
This limbo place.
This dark life.
With it’s cruel glimmers of hope.
The glimmers of hope.
Are the cruelest.
We are built to see their truth.
We are to blind to see how far away that truth is.
Our greatness is not a thing recaptured.
Our majesty will not be found in the returning.
What we are meant to be.
What we are made to be.
Wont be fond in our memories.
Our fathers memories. Our mothers.
And all the mothers. All the fathers.
That came before them.
He breathed into the dirt.
That is so long ago.
We have reached back into the filth.
With no breath, no glory.
We have smeared it upon ourselves.
We have covered that Great Light.
It is a hidden thing, now.
I can almost understand why you snuff it out.
I can almost see why you cut, and cut, and cut.
But you won’t find it there. Anymore than the astronauts ever found heaven.
And the diggers ever found hell.
I drift like you,
sometimes it is easier.
To deny the glory of our destiny.
We can say that it was self-delusion.
Evolutionarily built in.
it is within.
It is within.
Now, all I know.
Is to grasp,
gamble, seek. Seek, and long.
For some truth imprinted upon the very deepest of me.
Cast adrift on endless oceans within.
Stumble and fall, spelunking the caverns of who I am.
Perhaps I will find it.
In the cadence and song of words assembled, just so.
Perhaps it will not be in the meaning but the melody.
Rhyme, and repition, assonance and alliteration.
Or perhaps denotations will conspire.
And suddently there will be this soaring.
As the meanings, constructed truimphant.
Soar! And they carry my very self with them.