We talk over the old bones of the past,
The way people sitting beside a campfire
Take a stick and poke the dying embers of flame
Licking the last log-remnants
Burning in the night air of endings.
We sigh over how it makes sense now
The scenarios once locking us all in blindness
Show themselves clear and sparkling
As light dancing on water
Their jagged-edged episodes
Blistering clear in the light of passed time.
It is how a mother and daughter pick through the past
Of a husband, father, grandfather – his absence
Like a leaf we hand back and forth
Turning it over and over again
Examining its veins and edges and discolorations —
As if this examining will somehow tell us
What made it turn loose and drop from the tree.
There were a thousand lies on each side.
No one —
Won the war
Turned out to be right
Gained the spoils.
There was no trophy given.
The soul whispers for Desolation
and he comes when called.
It starts as one Want above all
in a fresh grass field
populated by children, flowers, butterflies and
becomes darkness and fire
becomes burning and ice
becomes a ravaged field.
Only space, emptiness, openness remains
after Desolation does his job.
When the lies have spoken their spark
When the fires have burned their burning
When the rain has gone away, the river receded
When the sun drops from the sky
When fear drives the chariot of victory
And his kingdom reigns supreme in your mind
When mercy closes her eyes and her voice grows faint
When the storm is unceasing and the flames of
Self-devouring grow higher than flight