~tashmoister

‘Wallow not in mires that
Reek with the concoction of all
Desires that eat from within’
Ever a voice echoing loud
From the depths of the undiscovered
Sources of all of man’s fires;
While yet another will rises high
That wills me on to grab onto
What this eye first sees; Is it the
Rise of dawn that catches my eyes?
When all the skies above me are
Stained a pink gold; when the frail clouds
Wisp in the morning breeze; meekly
Mirroring the orders of the
Wielder of lights; the new fresh winds
Blow from the east, blowing away
The yellow leaves of brown trees; and
Out from the heavens part the great
Clouds and a shaft of light then blind
Mine eyes: Behold, a giant hand
Adorned all with whites and with golds;
Behold, it raises and widens
My roads; there flash ahead- all the
Dreams in my head; which do I choose
When the partings are forked? What choice
Before me, would reflect those
That are walked on behind? But Lo!
Suddenly now, there is a piercing
Wind and sharp glint: wrenches the Hand
Back behind clouds; the vision
Is taken; left in memory
Still undecided.

Which of the roads were lit with soft
Light? Which amongst them would leave me
Faint hearted forever? O, now wish
I that those eyes had been quicker but
This the fate of Men, never
To see posterity; is it
To create and form lays for the
Days: that which now are in coming?
Is there not a path in making
Unseen that later the yearning
Shall shine; foreseen before; foreshadowed
ahead?
Or would I shuffle for evermore
Not knowing or seeing this way from that
Will it be that then that the world goes on
But for me in my treading?
Regretting and cursing the Hand
That illuminated no path
Worth taking?

Much a weary mind worries
For who doth then engenders the
Weariness but worry; would I have
It that the Hand leads me on, not
Caring as all happy men do
And merrily and verily
Following a well-trodden street?
Now should this weary poet
Cast her morbid mind onto things
More cheerful to cheer the wearied
Learners and to revel with the
General populace of the
Country and to face nothing more
Than the life that is lived like the
Common one and sleep in warm beds
Expecting no sleepers with minds
Wreathed in thoughts that are in like to
Those that have marked and signed names
In everlasting ink that is
Dark and deep and sure, and who have
Been put to sweet gentle sleep by
History forever?

Now arise the men from their soft
Well-rested beds; and look aweful
At the men long gone in their graves.
Would it be that their fates were the
Same? But no that shan’t be- and they
Cast it away- the single thought
That ensnares their minds; the petty
Minds that turn away thoughts to be
Thought unhappy; and follow the
Others back on to their lives that
Are happy. But what of those left
In black veils by the graves- who look
Upon cold hands and cold faces
Of old days; The seed that is sown
Now bears an incessant bower
A power that grows and darkens
The thoughts of the shadows and of
Wresting the young pinions that are
Blooming tender forth from within.
Black shadows linger encircling
The cemetery white and high walled
Waiting and watching and learning
And dreaming till white burst the wings
And silver issues a shining
Gleam ever growing and bright. Men
With weak eyes sheild them with weak hands
And mouths wide ope will look upon
The light; and minstrels and bards and
Historians and lore-masters
Shall scribble fast and with awe of
The great deeds that spill forth from souls
That chose not the path that was hallowed
With soft lights, but chose to tread the
Long weary among those that had
Passed to soil forgotten never
Along with their labor and with
Their toil!