the seed and the flower

quite like an old man’s gaze
I thought I felt my shadow grow
as the survey extended to gash
the weighted blade sparing the bones

the sole horizon no longer pure
against marring pedestals of mud
which these hands hollow built
growing harder with each sun

seeking to silence the past
is of no use for the chamber swells
the reverberating echoes
live and shake the cracks
the only perpetual character

I’ve stoked the flames to rise
to blaze against the dark to the sky
to illume the depths brighter
but it only serves to enrich
dark darker light lighter

no use to shun or to forget
my haunts crying need
to no longer choke blind nor deafen
my past wants me to succeed

it serves to build
and I my own architect
plan the lay of materials

now thought as obscure
but fleeting dreams that enter or run
being such that questions on life begun
are as hard to deduce as their origin

it seems to bark at logic
these manifesting thoughts
that given power can compost the past
their taste only fitting my desire

though memories weigh in
forever following impetus
it is my perceptions that ward
shape and drive the form

my thoughts are dreamers
that never wake in passing
they whisper for I to ear
and hope they fare well externally

the gaze of an old man
though veiled is learned
I am ever present to inception
the seed and the flower