by Steve King
© 2012
All is well, I promise you.
Do not be concerned by my
sometimes detached bemusements.
These are but easy retreats
to unspoke and stubborn dreams
where the past pursues new forms
and new wants reshape old charms.
You must not think ill of me.
These diversions inform but
my own still imaginings—
sparring with my old designs,
sanctuary from keen foils,
or just finding silence there—
call it whatever you will,
it is just a tiny step
removed from your waiting world.
Yours is no thin shadow place
to leave behind.
No burdens,
satisfactions unfulfilled,
no wasted unique glories
to drain the measure of me.
All is well enough, I know,
there in the outward brilliance
of common sight, where you wait
for my strange quiet to end.
I would explain everything
of this musing well within;
but there is still mystery
lying at the heart of it.
This mystery, this darkness
will not yield to my desires.
It’s a backdrop set against
somber glows from ancient pyres,
whose light never penetrates
inward from its waning fires.
And so shall the darkness grow
with accelerating years,
swallowing whole things once known,
making my dreams slip their grasp,
while old songs reprise as sighs.
I would trace each scattered spark,
and would try to harmonize
each echo, each fading note.
So far will my eyes not see,
nor ears own such reverie.
Yet all is well, believe it.
All remembrance must be so.
And so indeed, I wager,
are the unsung harmonies
a-play beneath your calling.
I will wait when it must be,
while you linger inwardly,
while you the passing choir
illumine with the flickering
of your own secret fire.
