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The Mantra and the Gentle Molting of the Evening

My throat had grown  
Warm, rumbling  
With the resonant  
Tongue,  
Of the mantra,  
Spread in a spacious  
Aria, to the coal  
Chamber  

The town,  
Burnished  
By the invisible  
Glow of repeated  
Passage,  
Subdued,  
In evening  
Slumber  

The house, shadowed by a  
Solitary  
Light, had  
Somehow  
Grown more  
Accommodating, across  
A hand span  
Of time  

The daylight,  
Shot through with rotating  
Banners, t-shirt emblems,
Bumper  
Stickers, all  
Urging us  
To move faster, try  
Harder, but  
Now, the quiet  
Seems  
To whisper,  
Take your time,  
Breathe in the space,  
Let it come to reside  
Within  

It was alive and  
Continually  
Shed itís  
Skins, unearthing  
Fresh,  
New growth  

The mantra  
And the gentle  
Molting  
Of the evening  
Blend,  
Until they become  
A single  
Solitary  
Sound  

Awareness follows  
Focus  
To the healed  
Wound, such a  
Seeming  
Contradiction,  
Clinically  
Clean and  
Sterile, tissue knotted  
Beneath fingers, which  
Gently knead  
The soil, then with more  
Insistent  
Probing  

A flash of her  
Writing, in such neatly  
Fluid  
Hand  

She breathed across  
The page, I just  
Hack  
Away  

Her face, smiling in a sudden  
Bloom, muscles engaging in a  
Simultaneous  
Array, her face  
Unsmiling, sterile  
Surgical instrument,  
A white dust sheet,  
Thrown over everything  

Sleep  
Swallows my vision,  
Reminiscent of the little  
Death, I had steeped  
In, when  
Drowning  

And my last thought,  
Was of that slack  
Expression, and what it was like
To know someone  
And to lose them  

In dying, many things  
Also  
Blossom, a calm  
Continuum  
Proceeds in articulate  
Resurrections, there were  
Vital exchanges in our  
Conversations,  
Of trust,  
Of abiding in the safe  
Space, we provided  
Each other  
And the care given  
To every  
Touch,  
Eyes, hands,  
Lips,  
Which was held  
Mutually precious  

I long for the warmer lights  
Of winter, beckoning with their  
Aura of solace,  
When a second shirt, under  
A blanket, becomes more  
Familiar, than my own  
Skin,  
When time slows  
To a crawl  
And lies down,
Beside me  

In dreams, eyes of another  
Dimension, only half  
Seeing, half  
Imagining, in their volcanic  
Orbits, about the semi  
Permeable  
Darkness, searching the  
Unearth, in its array of  
Metaphoric  
Phantoms, sliding up the walls at  
Acute angles, of the Platonic  
Caveís
Unlight  
Flame shadows,  
For some elusive  
Resolution,  
Lost  
In the solid  
Distractions,  
Of waking  

I feel  
Like a dilapidated tenement  
House, upon  
Rising, the morning  
Light seeps painfully  
And unobtrusively, into every  
Crack and  
Crevasse  
And then back out  
Again, into the still  
Moist air  

My eyes are blurred  
Windows, hands are rocking  
Cradles, arms are windswept  
Boughs and my knees are  
Creaking stairs, complaining  
With insistent voice,  
All of these  
Cohere,  
Into a singular moment,  
Passing through,  
A singular observation  

On overcast days,  
I pull errant strands  
To me, of that selfsame  
Light, I need its  
Searing gaze,  
Searching my body  

I am a widening  
Iris, caught in itís sheer  
Corridor, growing  
Accustomed, to its refracted  
Chiasmus, echoing  
Back,  
I welcome it,  
All of it,  
Into me  

My mind, body, soul, I keep them  
Clean and  
Well, so that I can  
Depart  
This life,  
In some peaceful  
Semblance  

To develop talent, like a  
Muscle, into a skill which  
Acts  
In synchronicity, I had to first  
Develop in honest, open  
And grounded  
Tones  

Each character  
Becomes  
A syncopated  
Footfall, each time  
I return to this,  
Well trod country  

It is a kind of love, we  
Share,  
Our truths, in this  
Space, and I am  
Here,  
Huddled  
In this chair,  
Enduring  
Sweat, back  
Aches and eye  
Strain, to reposit  
Soul, into these  
Letters  

These are our prayers,  
Our mantras,  
We donít try to understand,  
And we donít try  
To understand  
Ourselves,  
We live them,  
Like a potterís wheel,  
Molding clay  
With our hands  

In daydreams, Iíll remember  
Your face, calmly  
Composed, eyes  
Bursting with  
Barely restrained  
Revelations, you are my  
Axis  
Of perspective,  
Everything,  
In relation to you  

We held  
Hands,  
To keep from being  
Separated,  
In the teeming  
Throng,  
Voices form an  
Impenetrable web, only  
Our interlaced  
Fingers,  
Against the tidal  
Pressure  

Itís just a small memory,  
Thatís come to hold much  
Significance  

Sometimes, when Iím feeling  
Isolated,  
It grounds me,  
Memories  
Hold that power  

Street lights seem brighter  
As the darkness  
Deepens,  
I guess itís natural  

Everything changes,  
But everything  
Balances, too  

..  

The Mantra  
And the Gentle Molting  
Of the Evening  
By  
Daniel Christensen
DanielChristensen
Written by DanielChristensen (The Fire Elemental)
Published
Author's Note
Copyright © 2020 by Daniel Christensen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording,...
Copyright © 2020 by Daniel Christensen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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