“Nature has no
Outline: but Imagination … is Eternity.” - Wm. Blake
The dance between the scholar and the scribe,
The all-knowing void and the fugitive light,
The in-breath of love into the all,
The outbreath of fresh expression
That reaches, nevertheless, towards death,
The guise of endless recycling,
Just skipping the tripwires of the curse of permanence.
But the dark has its secrets, why the whole swells,
Always pushes new shoots away from the center:
It remembers all. How could time exist without
The memory? And how can memory release what’s already
Been imagined, when life comes straight out of the mind,
The root of all vibrations, that together move as one
Around the akasha, at the center,
Which hides in silence, in darkness, in death,
So life can paint from life, half-experienced,
Half-forgotten, as if the cave is blank,
For the forms, the connections, the terms
Are never again the same,
As there is no end to desire,
Its spiralings.
