136. The Buried Past


How can I help you understand,

What I’ve seen and known?

If there’s something to comprehend,

It’s not to use that tone.

Exhuming secrets long o’er-grown,

Isn’t your work of hand.

Tell me how to explain in words,

The scen’ry shrouded,

With stinging o’er-powering senses;

Absorbing the clouded,

Days of what is sought in crowded,

Rooms, found afterwards.

Quick, be still.  Calm inquisitions.

Forcing forth sealed-core,

To recollect its’ provincial,

Ghost-shadows, broke and tore;

Which plague the confines to the pore;

In repetitions.

Please let the time forget itself,

Be ye still and know,

That although I may oft’ look lost,

Hope is found with cost low;

To all who seek to be thou so:

Dwellers for times’-self.

For time must seal itself a grave,

In everyone bound,

By the inhalant-smells of death,

Faulting ‘long cold, hard ground,

Spreading the stark resonant-sound,

Of the ancient knave.

For in each of us there lies,

What cannot be had.

To live, be, in this torrent-sea,

We must lose olden-bad,

And forget the set-stained sad of…,

Days lost to the skies.

K. Aldaya, 5/3/05

Picture:  “The Ecliptic” by Larry Landolfi; https://500px.com/photo/339318/the-ecliptic-by-larry-landolfi?from=user


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