The sun in the shadow of the moon…..

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.