The Wait Of The World

Blood circulates slowly through unhurried and thoughtful veins

He sat in his body and wondered how the sweetest of his strains

Could ever lay a bow to the violin before him

Ended is the passing at the silent, secret gate

Where the temple universal stole away in sublimation

The garden was like brilliance unto the blindman without measure

Entranced by the advent of oblivion

He lay back in his boat, his arms poised to

Embrace the entirety in one embrace and throw open its doors

And he died at the gate that will not open

That will not open for the flesh that is weak

Unknown and nameless, the lyric of the ghost

Haunts the garden and the gate and is happy

The ideal outlasts the flesh that is weak

Yes, and the well outlasts the drought that is momentary

Trees in the garden that tower and sway

Raise up their boughs to whisper and pray

A sweet gale swept in, the breath of the poet

And loosed another seed to fall in the hamlet

The eye of Leviathan that fell from the sky

To enchant the lonely, to love and to die