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11/01/09 - (2)
Garden of Eternity
This wondrously sunny first day of November, Not even the most abundant roses are growing. The pools are devoid of their lilies, All plants, save for the hearty papyrus.
The garden is resigned to its slumberous designs, And so am I, to its and mine. At peace, in this sweet, pungent retreat, The brittle leaves invite me to sleep beside them.
Sadly, I have to decline, Though my soul knows, full well, its inclinations, That its sensibility would acquiesce, in a breath, Were it not that my destiny has other inspirations.
There are yet too many undisclosed seasons, For me to be saying yes to death, Too many ecstasies, epiphanies, efflorescences left, To let my essence fester in quiescence's keeping.
There will be time and time, beyond timelessness, To press the limits of ever-after life. For now, I have no choice but to bear witness To this short-lived withering and sigh.
How, otherwise, might I realize my immortality, That state of blessed perpetuation In which flesh imitates silence, silence flesh — Eternity's inexorable earthly incarnations.
11/01/09 - (2)
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