No doubt there are scratchings
On dark walls of hidden caves
Where ancient fleeing slaves have crouched
In misery and fright to write
Of being here.
This here where we each reside
With reality by our side
May be cozened
By our dreams
Of what seems to be true.
But actualities are fabricated
To cohere.
What appears into
Recognizable patternings –
The sounds and sights we discern
Can burn in temporal immolation.
Information abides in marks,
Lines of rise and fall of tides
Of memories,
Traces in the sands where time
Has wash away.
Today is always here.
It awakens with the Sun
To disappear In night’s descent
When the firmamental cosmos appears
Where yesterdays have fled
At lightning speed beyond our galaxy.
It seeks the edge if time itself
Where even nothing cannot exist.
Our scratchings mark on
These walls of black infinity
Upon which knowingness can barely show.
Bats may descend in silent screams
To discern what we may be
But hey! No one knows the way,
No matter what they say.
We are defined, confined
By touch and sight
Sound and hate
Love and delight
To outline a hand on blacknesses,
Define our lacks.
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