It’s snowing on the treetops

It’s snowing
On the treetops
Casting long shadows
On a lake
Frozen
Black and blue by
the moonlight
Sweeping white-glowing
stars
Smelling of
gravity
Gripping around
My ankles
To keep
My secret from spilling
Into the deafness
Of the cleft
Underneath.

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Into the mystery

The autumnal quiet
When all that’s left
Are pine needles and
A defenseless barren moor.
And the inflamed sky walks
Among pines, leaving
Bloody footprints among
Thorns. But I
Do not fear the quiet,
I do not need to hurry
Before dusk. I willingly
Poke holes
In my heart to let in
The night.

I am

I am sky; absent clouds shifting,
Bright dusk arising or descending,
Roaring quietly, but deeply and eternally
Unstable.
Birthing stars from darkness and
Obscuring galaxies into oblivion.
Like a sea of torrential consciousness
My awareness is illuminated by death.
I am emptiness; inhabiting;
Without space for nothing,
Everything.

I am; availability; the taking
And making of matters,
A steeply elusive discus
Releasing at the precise millisecond
Of maximum thrust.

I am; a consistently integrated ambition,
clustering unlimited sub-selves
With a secret objective.

I am; impossible opportunity,
Bright darkness burning,
A moonlit sun and wind;
Unmoving wind tearing holes
In the moving of space.

I am; vision; reinvigorated
By the opposition, I spread through
Shallow eternity,
Spinning slowly, enfolding
In art, biology, science.

I am; the invisible you,
The nothing and everything
In all.