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Nov 142010
 

by
Mark Goodson

Leaning upon

our weightless shadows

are we sure to fall.

The darker tracks

of lonesome laps

fade into nothing at all.

In pursuit

to reap the world

of its material gifts.

We find that we

will leave it all

the more substance-less.

Edges wear dull

as crashing slopes grow

gradually steeper.

In neon valleys

where darkness rallies

the pits grow ever deeper.

Knowing not how

our rising hearts shall

be born anew.

There is the plunge

that finds the bottom

has broken through.

The mystic breath

whisks through the air

where in truth we take sha pe.

It flows and burns

swells and turns

for our souls to take.

We awaking

to giving and taking

to the reaping of what is sown.

Find the silent bliss

of nothing amiss

in experiences unknown.

With the world far gone

forgotten along

the mountain’s high asc ent.

We will uncover

an unfurling lover

led us where we went.