Beyond The Years

Ev’ry matter established beneath shining sun
shall one day be gone, even if it’s just begun,
and the whispers that quietly spoke in visionary’s ears
to sway them from fulfilling their task
shall no longer have questions to ask
at the advent of the years.

In the Forest of Hope (where most men go astray,
lost within shades kindly blocking the heat of day),
there lies a hidden spring, concealed among common-looking things,
awaiting a weary, trav’ling soul
to drink and be refreshed from the throes
that turn paupers into kings.

Sweetness unveil’d from the hard rock of reckoning
in lurid glimmers — fretful shimmers beckoning
to dance away the years with a melody and waltzing air
in freedom — from first to last with joy
in the places they tried to destroy —
entering one’s laissez-faire.

Deeper still within the soul, a nightly gaze—cold
as winter in those chilling months that never fold,
she always makes her presence known—to steal the days of sunshine
and recede into cavernous thought,
never contemplating what was bought,
but purchasing the one sign:

Beyond the winter, beyond the trees, beyond rocks
and beyond the leaves, a pulse is known not by clocks
(which clamor rigidly, mechanically assessing the world)
but by human flesh in hidden heart,
a sacrament to life and the stars
beyond the years that still swirl.