Well Dressed

We had erased our memories

And the sheen of the black marble clouded our reflections

On stones hung from our necks

The shapes of billows what fabulous illusion

Was dark magic gone up in smoke

Receding through the streaming silences

Technicolor imagination

And best indulge thy superstition

For to reason without cause

Is a lost in the hollow

A reason left behind

On the front lines of the inner war

The struggle for the blaze of quiet

Reiterated throughout the shifts of self perception

Thy reflection in the other eyes

Staring into thy shallow beauty

An immeasurable depth of soul

For it was no more

And despite the opacity of the reflective shades

Thy true colors were translucent

A Technicolor chameleon in the theater of shadows

Always moving forward

Drafting the light of the coming

In the present movement

The enclosure of the dancing spirits

Granted a beauty the most mundane

And it was an absence of the causes gave it life

It was a drafting pure perpetual

Nevertheless there were stones like gods

That made their ways felt

In the shadows they cast on freedom

The aura of some rigid spiritual tyranny

That salvaged you from an empty despair

For why was the silence of the muse thy calling?

For what dark angel did thy lips soften

And thy spine tingle with revelation?

Déjà vu au courant, and on and on again

We are but the faintest repetitions

Of our everlasting spirits

In the calls of a new age

Wherein the machine was disarmingly gorgeous

In its pristine and rational intricacies

And its blunt egotistic lapses

To be lost in the walls the only freedom we would know

On the precipice but leap dearest

The air has learned to hold thee with the lightest touch

Feint into the arms of a silent rhapsody

And blithely withstand the gallows of their trust

For they’ll hang you from the spheres by your necks

At your summoning

’Las they could never take your echoes

Could never touch you falling

Let thyself limp in the moment of ecstasy

And breathe in the air thy calling

Sweet silence of the musing nothing

Or was it the wall gave you a kiss

And left you idle in the coming?

Would thee even care to speak

Of the immeasurable shallow of the beautiful?

God bless the chains would shackle thee

For hung and shackled would thee find salvation

A black hole to the depths

Dragging the corpse of thy beauty along

Ironically the age was quite becoming

In its allusions to the ties of cycles’ lives past

Samsara gently humming


Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com