By: Gary Glauber
A tepid night invites possibility,
a chance at significance,
something temporal that might last
beyond this happy moon’s slow journey.
Imagination curves into persuasion
as conscious singularity takes root,
knitting the dark into webs of realization
through forces pulling unawares,
that latent hungry fire of reflex.
This is our time, our moment to act,
rewrite history in soothing ways,
discover hidden harmony
extant in the ignored everyday.
Don’t bludgeon it with labels,
dissect passion into lesser parts,
rescind statements that became
mottos for stoic living. Don’t.
Let us embrace this routine
as if it never occupied time,
celebrate the small death
of sweet passing ecstasy
by holding fleet thoughts
transfixed as learned behavior,
pinned into submission
like all beautiful things.
This is our muted dance;
gambols always involve risk.
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