ALONG THE EDGE OF NIGHT (in the season of bliss).

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS DEDICATED TO LEONARD COHEN WHO DIED NOVEMBER 7TH AT THE AGE OF 82.
 

Welcome, above the rippling tide of waves of light, and wonder,

to the transtemporal bardo,

lingering in monumental living,

projections of a self's suggestion, echoed in form,

the Cartesian theater's screening time,

sorrow, cast in the stone, downcast pretense, built on absolving winds,

whispering to the twilight of incandescence fraught with speculation,

reconstruction, wounding the whim of representing prediction's precarious preparation,

paraded in the pastiche of placid procurement, time,

enough to stockpile endless eternities,

foisted in upon expanding contraction,

of mind's elixir, levitating gravitas gravitating beyond insignificance,

as his gravelly voice chants with angels,

apostates of freedom's conjecture.

Defecting pretense to submission, for better advents wandering in rhetoric and debt,

absconding nuance Tibetan books of the dead, spoken with subtle insight into beyond,

Threcymican ships, history written on micah plates,

memories of a voyager,

capable of flight,

echo Icarus,

given voice in a world of second chances,

over fertile memory, the young wander in observation, oh noble soul,

bred on truth and an economy of elaborate distractions,

the decorum of art, cast in memory and timeless voice

suffering for the sake or suffering,

I chose a path less traveled, esoteric, like yours,

I remember your admonishing nature, guiding me through corridors of empowerment,

poems whose apocalyptic apogee curtailed the pertaining adventure,

of honesty dressed in self consciousness on display,

in the revealing remnant of the human impulse,

pulse flow of nation's mapped out in the memory of clouds,

decorating eternity's step,

along consoling edifice,

etched in regolith monolithic panoplies of pervasive wonder,

remembering you now,

your place amongst the stars,

forever for now,

chasing the whispers,

soft cadences,

writ in the multiplicity of a night storm,

where genius broods,

burning books under the lens of apathy,

forever in speculation,

of impacts against irrelevance,

informing legacies of change,

in the happenstance of dreams,

somewhere along the edge of night,

in the seasons of bliss.