Making a Meaning
Can anyone make sense of life, real sense?
Who can call the cards before they fall?
Who can sing the song of the prophetess?
Life is splayed before our eyes and
the sense has left us.
There is no waiting in the wings for the
Bird of Paradise has gone the way of the Phoenix.
The electric sensation of the heartbeat filled kiss
prolonged and left for wanting
in the memory of
Singing in the soul the creation of beauty
the lifeforce of the fermata
which slips into silence and
exhilarates the blood in the living creature;
we who crawl into the
world of forgotten midst and
burst into fury.
There is no collar for the savage
creator of our own mind.
The deck cannot be stacked or
counted on for anything but
the toss of the dice and the lady
whose luck is not her own.
Beyond the door of the setting sun
the fire ignites the path of recollection
But who is it that can gaze on the
corona and still contemplate the fate