5:59

Four minutes ago
it was  -My Time-  to shine, rise
above dark valleys



Painting by Claude Monet, 'Haystacks at Chailly at Sunrise', 1865 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Stairwell

Heavy were my legs

              and blistered were my souls

                      as I climbed

                            dropping stones and sweat

as I went.

An ascent, the carrot grew

                           sweetly downward

                                  in your striking light

                                         I rose to the events

put in my path.

Sequentially steeper

                          pushing me down

                                      the air thins

                                          and blood chills

glimpses in steam.

Packed and thrown

                            the key, precious ego sinks

                                         reaping its slaughtered pleasures

                                               deflowered by appetite

famished and sated.

Starvation and salvation

                                  the lighter the load

                                                 only to reach

                                                       destiny's plateau

wilted and near weary.

Well, I didn't know

                         as good as it gets

                                           is nowhere near Yet

Grace has wings

                         on Time she flies

                                            passively Bye.

Image by Caspar David Friedrich [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Owl on grave c. 1836.    

Doomsday of Dionysus

If it were dreamt
by a brilliant mind
it would be, come
divine prophecy.
And genius was one
prophecy away from lunacy,
we would certainly
believe
in the phantasy.

Time,
we would learn
to stretch a point
into a limber line,
into an affinity
of likeness in light.

The expiration
and expectation
of the End, of our race
of the chase, over-
taken by night
led a long, long the way
by our own
four shadows.

We would cry,
caulk our eyes
and think again
of never
the same tomorrow,
while waking
through the day
four saking 
the dream, imagining control
over (coming) what may (come)
too tired of trying
to rise again.

Unwound
in the pendulums pause
exhausted
all ready
the urge to be done
with desire
hung over our heads.
It never dawned 

Up 

on us
We will
Be come
intoxicated
incinerated
in opta-mystic yellow
when the sun doesn't show.

The divine mind is “…the brilliant darkness of a hidden silence.”-Dionysus

Image from Splendor Solis c. 1582 (Germany), [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.