Friday, February 1, 2013

In Paradisum

I meander in slow fog,
sundered by spirits -
those devious supplicants;
those heavenly voices,
perhaps terrible bards in the court of my soul;
where words are new but stories old.  
They sing and play their lutes just fine
and I don’t mind,
for spectres rest in paradisum. 

I count my hopes like beans,
joined in supposed spaces -
my database of dreams,
that opulent happiness abacus.

I scramble to keep them ordered
as they spill, stretch thin, drift,
get vaporized in the distant sky -
where hostage in horizon’s edge,
they find a home in paradisum. 

This poem is meant to be read in tandem with, or very near to Fauré's "In Paradisum."

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