Monday, January 11, 2010

Entry

There is a meeting in a gallery,

A gallery that’s somewhere that’s nowhere at all,

A gallery where full portraits hang from it polished walls,

And fountains spot its hallowed halls,

Portraits of times that have long since

Joined and rejoined,

Its stray rivers, intertwined,

A gallery where the old masters still sing,

A gallery without lost causes

Or lost reasons,

Creaking sounds or rumbling noises,

A gallery where bad taste is the highest treason,

Lead me into this gallery dear,

Hold my hand now; show me the sights now,

Hold my fingers and point them in your direction,

Show me the way to the gallery,

Where I know you’ll wait for me,

Fully embracing this thrust of destiny,

The swift emblem of change,

Lead me into this gallery,

Your gallery, where blindness is a virtue,

Where the light bulbs project movies

Inside of our eyes,

Our every wanting eyes,

Take me to that deep corner

In the gallery where you always sit

And dream of times like these,

Where you sit and pray to your gods of vision,

The changing season,

You pray to be virtuous,

You pray to the gallery gods,

As the wavy drum roll thicken,

I walk towards you,

With fear on my breath,

Whispers clouding my mind’s eye,

I walk with boulders tied to my feet,

My back corroded from the golden heat,

Towards her aura of lilac lilies I walk,

Towards the bliss of her being.

And when we finally meet,

We stood toe to toe,

Both praying to the same painted gods,

Slicing the demons with our swords,

Praying for the same final answer,

We both seemed to stand together,

Forever,

Praying,

For the promised blindness,

The wreathed whiteness,

It is ours now,

Forever. Forever.

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