A Circular Trip - [Weekly Poem, 2-6-1992]
A Circular Trip
As we travel deeper, further,
into the Forest of Mist,
the echo of violence slowly dies away
leaving only piercing silence.
We quietly wander through the silence
without direction, arriving upon
a golden glassy land
where
the sky is transparent blue,
clear.
Allowing the clash of day and night to commence,
the sun bloody, a copper orange,
retreating,
grudgingly awaiting their next battle-
this one lost.
We move on,
on into another scene.
Entering the mouth of a majestic
Grand Canyon -
where the burden of time is trying.
Here we pray to Gods.
We pray everything into being,
for it is not real until it is first believed.
The Eagle cries,
the arrow flies,
and someone dies.
The Circle of Time
will always come around
when it scents death,
like a vulture circling high over its prey,
something speeding up a creatures destiny.
02-06-1992
(creation date of poem)
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