be a paraselenic homage
to her own stark illumination...
call her any name
in your memory that hurts
and she is exactly that lover
any night of crystalline dread
calling forth your desire...
oh the consciousness of mankind
is superceding his creations
they stand transparently
in their own forms
while the consciousness of mankind
slowly becomes aware of its own element
of process and the forms morph
before his own empirical eyes
into their living instant of being--
the process--for lack of a fit word--ongoing
Rimbaud tried it and got only so far
because his love was a wounded twisted thing--
not sure which another he was--
skein of space and time--
preserve our acts in the weave of thought
and effort harmonious with that design--
as other knots of imperfection fall away...
how many skins shed in this awareness
of beauty beyond all coveting--
the essence manifest in the sensual form
that completes the ritual
of self joining self--and lit on this earth
by the balance of sun and moon--
the interlocking embrace of lover and beloved--
the skins of previous identities falling away
as our bloom rises to the moon
where surveying the lit field as we rise...
all before now back into the perpetual element
dust to dust--lust to love--
and nothing but the transparency
of this instant--this always--
Content (c) 2008-2010 Philip Milito.