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T his landscape I wander feels mined
with dangers
far beyond my seeing, yet strangely
familiar in its unfamiliarity:
below me there is nothing at all (and this, somehow,
appears the least unreal)
as I
wander, wrapped
in the dream’s shroud
weeping
and unable to be consoled –
even my fingertips grieving as they reach for the
words,
beacons of meaning meant to reassure, now winking their inconstancy
in this deceptive dark where uncertainty is the polestar,
where all I would know or believe has become chimerical
where earnest charlatans in dove-grey suits make covenants on blood
already spilt,
cast lots for the pottage of their children
as I move, reaching
through emptiness
now weighted with my weeping
shifting images re-form in sooty symbols that repulse, obscure
the honeyed promises grown smudged and faint
again I strain to glimpse the shape of truth, to thrill at the weight
of substance in the empty
cup of my palm
and know
the felicity of meaning secured
like a
virgin’s sacred dowry in my heart
but everything drifts
elusive as
the borealis
always
just beyond
my piteous grasp – and this is my sadness –
when I am close enough to
almost clasp the tantalizing light
it dims
dissolves
in
pale and plumy wraiths
a swaddling fog that so distorts my vision now
the cloud I see assuming
such a monstrous shape
persuades me that mere
waking will never assuage
such
sadness
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