The shadows, they illuminate
The narrow razor edge between
The timing of the passion
And the shining light of pain.
We knock like light on darkened doors
The knuckles seeking, searching for
The holy crevice, keyhole, escape
From the forms of thought in vain.
Ideas, spiral, convex forms
Of canvas culture, satin steel,
That rise like wind, tempestuous storm,
And fall like raindrops as we kneel,
And hold out roses, bound by norms:
The payment, bribe, to clinch the deal.
Yet, roses are survived by thorns
That serve a purpose, to reveal
That pin-prick touch of poison truth
That soured bribe, that probing hand
That yearning drive for conquest, and
For domination, instant, pure.
Five drops of blood, five grains of sand
Are all that life and love endures.
And shadows, they illuminate
The narrow razor edge that cures
The mind of thought, narcotic swoon.
And holds the silvered mirror up.
The sun in the shadow of the moon
Is empty, like a laid-down cup.
And in the tea-leaves we can see
Our soul reflect infinity,
And float in empty concept space
Between the forms of thoughts and dreams.
We flow, amorphous, at the edge
Of consciousness, quicksilver stream.
The shadows, they illuminate
The narrow razor edge between
Pale consciousness and fiery dream.
The edge we now inhabit with
The shadows and the silent space
Where, motionless, the spheres of time
Enrobe us in our state of grace.
While all around, in conflict locked
Are rays of light, and darkness, shields.
The sun in the shadow of the moon,
Once gave it life, but now it yields.
And feels the prick, the truth, the thorn,
And gazes, wistful, at the stream,
Tossed back and forth, dismayed, forlorn,
From conscious bank to island dream.
