In the mushrooms from the rain,
In the Himalayan stones,
Illustrations on the walls,
Things that tell us to be still,
For outside of these presences
The waves divide and crash
In endless seas of static,
Possibilities materialize
And change inconceivably
In a sweet dream
That terrifies,
How the only diamonds
Are those right at the surface
Rolling with the flow,
And the only thing permanent
In love
Is an unsoiled, ungraspable ideal
That shines like distant rays
In patches through the blue and grey
As if this warmth and light
Are what you're meant to be,
Soon buffeted by bitterness
In the winds outside these walls,
Then intoxicate peace begins.
There is comfort in a house at rest,
The pillows where they were,
The surprises are just opened doors,
The sounds of running motors,
And sleep becomes a stone at last,
A thing to hold on to
While galaxies come and go like thunderbolts
Playing tag across the empty fields.
To catch them is to have learned something,
But it seems you never will.
