Western Door

Tapping fingers count the seconds
Until the veil of endless sleep covers
The blue windows to my soul.

Ticking clocks and eternal watchtowers,
Survey and count the hours as
They solidify into present tense.

Mark the second in which the sandalwood
Scent of yesterday's revelations becomes apparent,
Too late again to change what’s been done.

When the western door calls me home,
I want to be fully aware of my
Last fleeting attempt to draw a final lung full
Of this life's profound and vain air

Our Sadness as Our Ultimate Beauty

Before age or the random take you
Into the sleepy dreams of decomposition,
You should watch the pacific wind
Defy its name and throw ocean waves toward
The dusk sky in a rapturous release
In a million tiny shafts of light.

The sky will be an undying shade of sepia-tone
With the red sun vying to penetrate the stormy gray clouds.
And your heart will slow as the crashing waves
Fade into the countless grains of sand beneath their weight.

As the misty rain dampens and cools
The universe all around your eyes,
You will see clearly the paradox of how
All that makes us cry is what makes us beautiful.
Then the fallacy of reason will fade
As the whole experience begins to coalesce
Into one feeling of sadness
When you realize that all we know and are
Will eventually slip into memory,
And then be forgotten or lost in time.

Despite the fleeting nature of all paths taken,
You should still take that walk
And watch the endless dance of the random
As it unfolds its understanding to any onlookers and
Then fades into the western sky.

© Michael Pineschi