The Wait of the World

Blood circulates slowly through unhurried and thoughtful veins
He sat in his body and wondered how the sweetest of his strains
Could ever lay a bow to the violin before him
Ended is the passing at the silent, secret gate
Where the temple universal stole away in sublimation
The garden was like brilliance unto the blindman without measure
Entranced by the advent of oblivion
He lay back in his boat, his arms poised to
Embrace the entirety in one embrace and throw open its doors
And he died at the gate that will not open
That will not open for the flesh that is weak
Unknown and nameless, the lyric of the ghost
Haunts the garden and the gate and is happy
The ideal outlasts the flesh that is weak
Yes, and the well outlasts the drought that is momentary
Trees in the garden that tower and sway
Raise up their boughs to whisper and pray
A sweet gale swept in, the breath of the poet
And loosed another seed to fall in the hamlet
The eye of Leviathan that fell from the sky
To enchant the lonely, to love and to die