unnumbered days

I

of all we press into our heads of voices,
only dearest of them reflect our choices—

and that so subtle rhyme of earthly silence,
comes whirling through us with honest violence—

a vivacious wind winding through vast fields,
lush, unseen as of yet, through all that yields,

waters the fertile soil, carrying their source,
in memory or melody or in knowing oweing force:

the ripening skin of a motherly wanton face,
challenged both by lack of succor and grace,

trampled on while serving as most spacious runway
for fruitful souls to take off to ample headway.

II

felled, rich in their gray, enveloping the expanse
of out-stretched prayers, eager for romance,

squeezed into the crevices of green and brown,
sweetest sounds must be born, so renown.

breakthroughs of life, unimaginable whispers,
faint, as from slightest steps never recovers;

question-less, pure forms of adherence, pushing forth,
surrender themselves so, building up warmth.

and a memory of redemption, as the grand story unfolds,
renders and reorders itself in the simple truths it all holds.

III

but bound, traversing the planes of existence,
there cultivating, then resonating, for instance,

fate and faith know all too familiar an end.
perhaps, unnamed, mysterious, merciful friends,

angelic in their absence, unequivocal in their trades,
can tell us something of what love life forbids—

cheery they relate, and make up for our lost times,
and so in their stead we carry on singing to their chimes:

ever-lasting seedlings that can kill with unseen skill,
but live deep below; it grows still, a world of will.

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