May 27, 2005

The horizon,
black line in a black night’s sky,
explodes in an instant to brilliance enough to blind angels.

A face, pure and smooth, perfect,
turns toward me in a radiant smile of love
enough to chase away the dark thoughts clouding my mind.

The handprint, placed in stone in ancient days,
a token of eternity for passers
that they may remember the impressions they too have left in their own world.

A face, eyes brimming with tears of joy,
pride, loss, attempts a smile
though we must part soon to be on our own for the rest of our lives.

The skeleton in a vast cavern
alone in a collection of a master’s craft kept for millennia,
a silent tribute to a futility even one so great as this could not escape.

A face, worn, patterned with a weaving,
grief, elation, hatred, anger, joy

and one other,
lasting, greater than all the others,

A spirit, existing through countless eons,
is a token, a tribute,
to remembrance and a way past a futility that will consume the soul.

And a monument to all the faces and the shadows and hues and patterns and brilliance within.


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