Post by Ross McCague on Jun 12, 2008 23:09:27 GMT -5
I'll be marching through the morning,
Marching through the night,
Moving cross the borders
Of my secret life.
Leonard Cohen
I wanted to say what words I may
To elucidate the placid doldrums of my ways.
The territory that I have to till
Is untouched by human hand or will.
So much crystallized in a heart exposed,
What I could preserve I garner for a role.
The space we have to be, with or without a name
Orbits in a planetary system of blame.
I identify with one or another in its course.
Many are trained, groomed and fed, pick a thoroughbred.
I never nourished a single seed from inception,
Held it to the sun in its head-turning days.
My secret life never manifold, glimpsed not ever told.
I know one radiant song, how its peerless melody unfolds.
Might I merge with the heedless world,
Love a woman till our twinning takes flight.
Separated from the core, set free somehow,
I could float toward an acrobatic hand no doubt:
It is not the miss I fear, no not a perpetual freefall.
The fear is in the true success of the enterprise,
A world with permanent boundaries to legitimize
Who I am, how I live, the tenets of the limitless.
I perpetuated a guise framed by my own thoughts,
Inclinations, predispositions and dreams.
The first act shapes the last it seems.
I am assured the world fathomless is mapped in love,
A river runs below a treacherous governance.
Such rules I learned flow to an ever-approaching abyss.
The deathbed and birthing room appear in my dreams.
I know expectations are not what they seem.
Daily messages passed from a secret inner room.
I turn back in dread, look ahead in fear.
Childhood is on fire, who can locate the negative?
A one dimensional reel with a worn-out soundtrack.
Let it run once more, observe the burning play.
It will disprove the claims of the Roman calendar
As just another mode of the infinitely tabular.
I feel my throat scorched from the conflagration.
If only I could run out, escape a foul-smelling tale,
Enter the field where the impulse to live takes root,
Where ancestors dance above their pitiful graves,
A life force erupts from a few flowering days.
Marching through the night,
Moving cross the borders
Of my secret life.
Leonard Cohen
I wanted to say what words I may
To elucidate the placid doldrums of my ways.
The territory that I have to till
Is untouched by human hand or will.
So much crystallized in a heart exposed,
What I could preserve I garner for a role.
The space we have to be, with or without a name
Orbits in a planetary system of blame.
I identify with one or another in its course.
Many are trained, groomed and fed, pick a thoroughbred.
I never nourished a single seed from inception,
Held it to the sun in its head-turning days.
My secret life never manifold, glimpsed not ever told.
I know one radiant song, how its peerless melody unfolds.
Might I merge with the heedless world,
Love a woman till our twinning takes flight.
Separated from the core, set free somehow,
I could float toward an acrobatic hand no doubt:
It is not the miss I fear, no not a perpetual freefall.
The fear is in the true success of the enterprise,
A world with permanent boundaries to legitimize
Who I am, how I live, the tenets of the limitless.
I perpetuated a guise framed by my own thoughts,
Inclinations, predispositions and dreams.
The first act shapes the last it seems.
I am assured the world fathomless is mapped in love,
A river runs below a treacherous governance.
Such rules I learned flow to an ever-approaching abyss.
The deathbed and birthing room appear in my dreams.
I know expectations are not what they seem.
Daily messages passed from a secret inner room.
I turn back in dread, look ahead in fear.
Childhood is on fire, who can locate the negative?
A one dimensional reel with a worn-out soundtrack.
Let it run once more, observe the burning play.
It will disprove the claims of the Roman calendar
As just another mode of the infinitely tabular.
I feel my throat scorched from the conflagration.
If only I could run out, escape a foul-smelling tale,
Enter the field where the impulse to live takes root,
Where ancestors dance above their pitiful graves,
A life force erupts from a few flowering days.