Becoming, Permanently

I live- but a ghostly reflection,
A phantom body
Of what I could be (and am).

I thrive- but an endless struggle
Beneath the clearest understanding,
The sheer clarity,
Like a sky on the sky.

I search- but a puzzling treat
To what I already know-
To savor, to redraw the choices.

I am a moving magic,
An ongoing revolution- to define,
Redefine my change, I say!

I am not perfect, but I,
I am to stay this way.

Origami

Each fold- a potential, physical
Dive from the probable,
A new shadow, a sound
Brushing against the others.

Each tuck, a verb whispered
For itself- the entity, subject
Coming to life, deeply detailed.

Black. And White. It seams,
It arrives methodically
That my soul should grow wings.

Battle Cry

Fire and ice, a layer
Long spread on the glass-
A glaze, separated,
Less than complete.

Pull the shields, the silence
From the infinite turns, niches,
The secrets from the tamed-
The war begins noble.

Sit still, and it follows,
Paints a canvas of soot
(Smiling eyes don't see).
Overturn yourself in the night,
And uncover a prowess long set.

On the Pedestal

The finest of them,
The most eminent
Swerved, dodged narrowly
The sweet, sweet coronation.

The highest, the obscure,
The worthy of pride-
Cast like a thousand sighs
Upon the disjointed sea-
He stands alone in sunrise.

The rest, young and old,
Reaching or pulling,
Say a prayer, smile for him.

Shadow

A smiling, crouching shadow
Sings the sweetest lullaby-
Stooped, yet linked
In the night a thousand shades.

Only then, in the pool of light
Is it simple, just
As any love, found alone-
Mercy and truce.

The days are fooling,
The endless turning times
But the lightest cogs
In a turning, turning shift.

Chattering Essay

Spices-the magicians pieced
All the sensations, left as keys
To a sister of the soul-
Thrown in arcs, circumventing
What seems to be a point.

Concentric? A bit accented
In the illusion particular,
The allusion circulating-
One of the old breed.

Yet, so far from the origin
We sit and watch,
Stand and clap
For one of ours- at best
A collector, magpie-plumed.

Expectation

Marked silence? She sits,
Stands from a falling throne-
Her crown waits, she says.

It is gone, only hoped,
Only dreamed, dreamed away
The only heir she so kept.

The last question,
Before the light caved
To a coughting empty world-
What is left?