View From My Window

The Thirst

From the darkness of one's mind,
a quiet insanity surfaces-
there are no metaphors,
just lonely achings, and repetition.

It swells on the tips of my tongue, beyond my grasp,
beyond the words that do not pour from my lips.
I am in three hundred degree weather.
Need I say more?

A coyote howls its repetition
high on a rocky precipice
that gently curves towards the cold ghost moon,
bathing the world below in silver.

The moon is reminded each day of its own galactic endeavors,
yet it, too, carries a repetition-
of light and beginnings,
of metaphors and golden meadows.

Beyond the normal spectrum of consciousness, the coyotes gather.
They are one in mind and spirit-
ghosts, and nothing more,
for they dwell in a parallel world
of senses, of sight and sound.
Here, the moon, the sun, the stars,
and the dry, dusty desert, dwell a thirst.  
Shapeless, meaningless.
The night begins to swell.

Do they exist in a concubine existence?
Or do they exist solely for existing,
a ghost and nothing more,
alone and shadowed, by death and thirst?


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The Thirst

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