aeclectic - poetry by Ahomet

Reflection Under Full Moon

What if I didn't exist
would anything halt its turning
would the space be emptied forever
that I was born to

would the rain feel less welcome
coming to earth near a weathered window
I often looked out through melancholy music
that mimicked the falling water

would hearts be emptied of a hope in me
or merely inflamed by unfamiliar absence
would I rest in the minds of friends
or course about somnambulant

would the land that takes me in
wait eternally outside the vault
last rampart of a conjuring ego
that alienated me from earth

and when the sun laughs over my grave
with its brilliantly painful light
will it filter down where I was last seen
before sundown and the onset of night

Inner Door

Searching without
the world gives a vocation
a promise of success
to neglect all else within

but what appears impediment
childhood disease
lingering uncertainty, doubt
is the door we were set before
as infants

Portal to a world unknown
and the journey away ever since
an elegant ballroom
of clattering daggers and swords

But the candles burn down
summoning spirits from shadows
that mingle among guests
immersing whole groups in dream

Dreams of heart's satisfaction
full acceptance in other
penetration of mystery
captivation of force

a dream, ephemeral, fleeting
that cannot bear the sun
cannot sever the soul
from its eternal longing

Always near the door
we pray before its steps
never will it open
to draw our hearts inside

But there the truth resides
most fateful and humorous

sardonic and wise
a fattened sage unable to move

There we all must enter
escape the cursing rabble
shed our ragged costumes
in the dying ritual

Not a death that stops the heart
drawing a curtain over the mind
but a death of all other living
all other thinking

of the sense of the world
that can no longer wed
vocation with pretense to art
ease with the absence of pain

Then it will be time
to merely sit and listen
skin upon dirt, hand upon heart
to the fat man's eulogy
of so many lives

rise up at sermon's end
and cast a flower into the grave
walk in procession
deeper down
into the dark's redemption

into a cavern, falling water
hearts beating, mouths breathing
congregation of huddled initiates
psyche of a sentient being

not yet born to flesh
but seeping in the marrow
of all before consciousness
now subconscious borne

far above, alone, the fat man sings
in operatic despair
of all the lies he has had to tell
the refugees entering his door

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