Not Another Word
Dawn awakes, but nods until draped upon silvery dregs of fortune and will. So new and calm, too tired or careless to examine the tumult or try repentance or rest, acquiescing ultimately to wroth and disdain.
And it shivers; tied upon a backplane, shunned by not solitude or enmity, but of contemplation and ease. These things that think and consider, aware of nothing but alacrity and fate, or driven destiny, fail to learn or lose earned wisdom by crashing upon reality; wailing into the rift of oblivious ease and treacherous banality, corrupting innocence in favor of some measure of nebulous, untrustworthy success.
And here too, does the pendulum trace and waver, torn from nature into a meager shell of progression, trapped to cycle infinite and wander, careening among the ropes and cables of Leviathan tamed. But drawn, and drawn, to the once glistening dreams past by plunder, what the world demands from weakness or complacency, jaded and faded, and to dust, and to none. And these lost, the drone, the march, the shuffle of broken hearts accept the drizzle, subsist without triumph until spent and undone.
Light lost, still a beacon of memory, circumstances not too divisive or abrupt to compel or defeat. It is no small wonder bleakness overcomes the soul, but falls away without mention. And those in their shades and images, embracing these and all, defeat ultimately the specter of sadness or despair; then and now, the stuff of life is brittle, and a thought can redefine all reality.
Transcendence carves away prejudices and angers and woe, or still or thrill, or so, and so. So, forces dire and persistent and rapacious, dragging and yoking the will of the wild have no purchase, no tooth, no grip, when life is free of presence. Enter and leave, fritter and escape, row and seer; rhythm tender silence in the stillness.