Tangerine candlelight

Think of a situation, any situation.
Sit by, lie by, to watch it unfurl
Behind your eyes, as a movie winds on,
Taking you places you wish it didn’t.

Have you ever turned off a light,
And 10 minutes later noticed,
In the corner of your eye,
The remnants of its shine?
But to look at the bulb –
It is black and cold.

Grace someone with deference,
And lie to him.
Because fate didn’t put us in their
Paths to flatter when we dislike;
Laugh when we cringe;
Like when we are indifferent –
At that moment.

In all of this, as in a movie,
As in a charade,
We seek truth.
It is a filthy, sad, sickening thing,
It is.

See light, though,
And wander to its source. Tread slowly,
Hands slightly ahead,
The body slanted to one side, knees bent,
Weight on knees. Wince through darkness,
But there is nothing to fear.

The trees around you are warm;
The air is soft; the path is wide.
There is great comfort,
And this is no lie.

Yet it is a funny thing,
This light,
Because it stays equally away.
You tread this way, reveling, admiring,
Laughing, loving, discovering,
While treading softly, courteously, mindfully.
This is pleasure,
Yet light is ubiquitous, mocking, goading.

Suddenly, you come upon the source;
It is closer now.
A warm, yellow glow of a lantern
Hanging over the entrance to a pub.
The lantern is thrashing in the wind,
Which brings invisible cold.

On a cold night, the pub should be full, no?
But no light in pub.
Only a tangerine candlelight,
With windows of ease,
Come look at me please.
And have it for now or later indeed.
For it is a ripe thing for such a plausible need.
In fact, the windows are black.

Gaze upon them,
And see the wild, yellow, ball of light,
Tossing around furiously till,
With a gust, not strong but very cold,
It goes out.

There are only stars for light now.
Ahh . . . look how far away they are!
Too far for me – too far for anyone –
But I will go anyway.

State

Every mistake was little, and how blind was I to them all.
Like blunders were always there but never before me – with me –
as they are now. Never too hard, never blink.

Or it will go away. Mustn’t scare it away; mustn’t make it
something it isn’t; mustn’t force anything.
Let what will happen, happen. Because it will, one form or another,
try or not.

Lest it be, lest it be, for it be. Inferno is black. Inferno becomes
Infer. Infer becomes red. Inferno disappears. Infer is red.

What will happen, lest everything go? I come here and everything
be, with wonderful triumph of spirit so callous before, and soft,
soft now. What be beauty if this isn’t?

Others think much, probably more. Yet their thought is confined,
limited, willingly so, and mine – oh mine! – goes with the breeze –
sometimes with them, where stagnate waters lie. And I cry for that,
for I can’t escape, because I return again, again, again.

You go there, and laugh. Laugh for eternal nights and youth;
those things away in night when young – when it’s cold and
something else is wanted, yet unknown in the blaze of youth.

The all-encompassing, red-hot, destructive, fire, that’s fed with
an incompetence sprung from reckless, wanton, youth.

What little things – a second, even – can wreck great potential, employed
with carelessness that must always be, for a whim cannot be suppressed
in this state.

But what could it have been, if not for the cadence of her voice?