For that is only what we seek.

The roads, the valleys, the ripened dreams in solidarity,
To a handful weaved of a ghost aubade in speech
Evoking contingent flames unmourned, and embraced
As the shaken birth from the morning, I starve the feathered dreams,
As I no longer follow through with the nightlong autumn near the glass,
I hope we don’t forget each other, and that we will remember
The wind that passes through the roots, and the river rocks that sought for better dirt,
Along with the threshold alone across the fields,
Underneath the burning sun, marring in the dark
Like a half-dead trout out of the water
In between hours of indecency and midnight
Shuddering in asymmetrical silence in a dim sneak of the unseen,
Consumed into withered plum leaves; a perspective forward,
In a linen of light sliding onto the rock’s surface,
The sunlight against the striking of a door,
And we have left by then like traces of flowers destined to exist,
Knowing that as the autumn is wounded and as it leaves,
The beginning sought for nothing but the words that break
From cold lips that illuminated the seized eternity
In this shifting sense of a dream but it is not sacred,
It is not long, and it is not tormenting, but as the roads bend
Into the beauty of the raging sea, fettered with twisting golden branches
Of the feeble willows silent in their song. We listen to the light
We listen to the walnut stems above the shuttle of greenery, forever-greenery,
Soon walking in a blaze, the wind is a wilderness hiking in our hair,
Stilling our skins with our roots into the construct of water
Water dimming away from our reflections, growing into our shadows,
Growing darker by the starlight, erupted by the fielding parallels
Of whites, purples, blues,
All into the pool of our eyes
Warped backwards into the world; we give it back,
All of it, the ghosts we are,
Greedy, slaved by the struggles of dreams drifting in repetition,
Laid against the image of the morning
That will fade into the following end, in part,
That as it only knows one name,
The words are hollow and they haunt us both.
Eyes eternally stolen into the darkness,
The glowing towered silence built by people,
For we know all too well, as the dark perched the clouds
In their dusky outlines, and without fail,
It is like we had lost sleep,
Since we still do not know any better, condemning the winds as they turned,
And condemning the spectral dreams that once danced in our hearts
Not absent, not void,
Thrived among what winter lies,
Toward the passing morning, as we only recall the naked forests
For that is what we only see, for that is only what we seek…

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