Perdurabo

Perdurabo
in the midst of fire,

by every blazing hand,
there will be written
in air, in sea, in land,
in sky, the word,
the rhyme,
the rhetoric.

Perdurabo
by the hand that binds

all things to all others,
each, alike and separate,
similarly bound,
unique. . . and continuous.

Perdurabo
by all and all that will be,
all that is,
all that was,
and all that shall come to pass.

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Riding Spirals In A Blazing Age

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Whenever I find I have arrived at truth, the answers I sought are not to be found.

Whenever I find myself believing myself to be wise, I find the folly in all of my wisdom.

Whenever I find I know what it means to love, I find myself drenched in anger.

Whenever I find I know what it means to be patient, I find myself restless and anxious.

Whenever I find myself at my destination, I find myself looking only to the horizon.

Whenever I find I have achieved my destiny, I realize my destiny lies unfulfilled.

Whenever I believe my purpose has been served, I find my purpose is to serve.

Whenever I find myself running madly toward my fate, I realize it is time to stop and wait.

Whenever I believe my time is finished, I realize it has never even begun.

Drawing Depths

In every ounce of energetic compulsion
there exists the fortitude of greatness.
And in the hours when no sleep will come
and all the night is afire with lamplight,
there is the stillness that pries the forge
of brain and muscle to extract a truth
covered in lies.  The eyes of
the stillness are open wide
and the knife they hold cuts
with precision, unmatched.
Take hold of wide eyes
in the stillness of waking nights.
Cut deeper with blades of impeccable thought.
Draw from deeper wells than
ropes spun with facsimile
can hold.  Draw from the stillness
the grains of water
that catch fire in the night
while all others sleep.