Contemplation (I Utterly Adore)

In the midnight feel of everything,

As time unravels, balls of string,

I must admire all I have,

I must devise a way to love;

On hand, I utterly adore

The winter fjords and rushing shores,

And the rhythms do strongly beat

As he goes dancing through the street,

Dull and dusty at a glance,

Before a chasm reveals the prince,

A silence wrecks the air;

A modest beauty worth the stare,

In the low of morning sigh,

As rivers falling from the sky,

Where memories painted the trail,

In the land where there is wail;

Alone, in there, the sunlight, amber,

Of the morning-lit clamber,

Guiding the shadows, there is the Hatter,

Drawn upon, lost in matter

Material- and then that dancer

Comes forth, spiralling, a horseless prancer,

Around the soul-light;

I love that bright light,

Feeding me the taste of the better,

Whilst taking me away from the latter,

Sinless eyes cast down atZion,

Whilst bluer ones play the liar,

Baby-steps against the strides

Of the lion who, from the fool, he hides.

Becoming what is a set

Of light versus dark and then again,

With its weathered custom,

Natural for the love of loving,

When winter’s for the mourning soul,

Summer has its ultimate goal

To lead the dance, an onwards roll,

To engulf the bluest hole,

A Tarantella cover folded

Over the heart that has been gilded;

A motion of the troubled follower,

Doubled by the pilgrim’s non-sequitur,

The music of some feathered pair,

Coupled with that of English flair;

The waterfall is touched to the floor,

Not stopped by any sense called,

And, in the sixth perception,

From before sight’s first conception,

I see it all, the rise and fall

Of the lover’s troubadour call;

There lies the present mystery,

Anew, it gives thrills to me,

Eccentric hills and meadows

Are the landscape framed by letters;

Hand-in-hand the secrets go,

Far too fast, yet far too slow

For me to comprehend

All the time I’ve lost or spent,

The messages beyond my eyes

That brings out heart’s surprise,

It’s the countless age of youth,

Burnt by the once-and-stingy truth

That life sees in a concave row,

No, the woodland path wavers to and fro,

With polished shoes and diamond floor

Living, splendid, evermore

In my mind and life,

Against the ever-growing strife,

That centre of everything,

What becomes not autumn nor spring;

When the eye of the storm

Is thrust upon the lazy port,

As kindness brought forth from the soul,

Can leave an ever-growing hole,

Left to languish in humility,

And words are what is left of me

When the ocean draws its way back,

When the wood is left hanging slack,

When the dance is stopped,

Leaving the singer with her lot,

For all, by chance, she has to say,

To imagine things, to pine the day away;

When her job is cast aside,

When another is the Bride,

She has to match her ends to the sky,

Patch up a clouded, half-drawn lie

With tales of the mighty dear,

Alone on a cliff so sheer,

Rescued by the hand of stone,

Come again, the prince’s throne;

Oil, wax and cedar-wood,

I’d change the past if I could,

Instead thought is given its way forth:

Painting a mountain out of love,

Where there is nothing left to say

But to dream out a way:

Like a chess piece under awe,

And as my eyes become soar,

I still say I utterly adore

That king of moves across the floor.

The End

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