Friday, January 23, 2015

philodox.

[Shit topics like love and longing aren't lifeworthy.
These are passing complaints.
This will all get sewn up, you say.
At any rate, I like to make a mess, but don't tell me this will all blow over.
I'd like to make amends, but don't tell me how to love you.]

Out in the sky, half a block away, yards from the earth, two lords sit casting stones.
Their names, oh I forget,  but you can't unpaint the picture of a face when it's so exceedingly clear.
Yeah I say let's paint these wax wings over and take flight before dawn,
Before the break of day, guide ourselves to this cosmic couple, because I...
I won't be left behind, I won't be abandoned here in these salt flats, this desert,
Where, eventually, the winds will surely come.
I set my heart on them, set my heart on you, and surely I'll see this through.
Where we can play to waltz and dash through the colonnade, after it's planned,
We can spin and pirouette over the future home of some unnamed structure,
Vast and looming, or infinitely small.
The size and scope are always in the eye of the architect.

Will the lines deceive on the horizon?
Will it be distinct?
Will the edges dull and fade against some copse of evergreens to the east?
Will the lines of sight from the endless windows terminate in some mountaintop vista?
Will the vantage point lend enough of a range to convey a sense of power or belonging?
      I'd hope so.
      I'd hope too, if I were you.

Underneath the sky, hundreds of miles away, we'll fold our legs and throw stones
Into the space where we'd once imagined a lake.
It's name, oh I forget.
I say, I say lots of things before I mean them, just so I won't forget.
And now I'm left behind, out in these salt flats,
Where eventually, the winds will surely come.
In the eyes, in the heart of the architect.