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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476631" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>I Feel The Thorns Of The Rose Making Inkwells Of My Eyes</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I feel the thorns of the rose making inkwells of my eyes.<br>It's me that hurts. But without meaning to, <br>I'm bleeding for everyone. A watershed of blood and tears. <br>A reservoir of pain. Not all my own, I drink <br>before anyone like a hummingbird, or a canary in the mine, <br>to make sure it isn't toxic. No goat skull in a well <br>of rotten water. No blood on the horns of the moon. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What a disgrace it is to be a human sometimes. <br>What a sorrow when your heart wobbles like a drunk bell<br>and there are perturbations and precessions in your orbit <br>it's hard to explain except as the flawed configuration of a dream <br>with your waking life, though they're both just two waves <br>of the same sea of awareness, feathers and scales.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oxymoronic maple keys vertiginous as Sufis <br>at the crossroads of everywhere and here. My heart <br>is a bone-box full of elegies for Arctic swans <br>shrinking like ice-bergs from global warming. <br>And I'm not as mindless in love as I should be, <br>though a muse is still pure oxygen distilled <br>from a thousand undiscovered plants in the Amazon <br>as beguiling as the ghosts of the fragrances <br>along the Perfume Trail. And sometimes, I swear, <br>I can smell the weeping of wild blackberries <br>eclipsed by the shadows of voracious crows <br>pecking out their eyes like dark jewels <br>in a crown of thorns. And there's a feeling <br>with too low a frequency for words like the afterbirth <br>of an orphaned universe that resonates within me <br>like the poignancy of the embrace of one <br>of the saddest graces of compassion limning its tears <br>with a star's worth of beauty glowing through the clouds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And goodness arises within me like a loaf of bread <br>left out to cool on an August windowsill, and I'd <br>break it into as many pieces as my heart to share it <br>if only for one instant, with the hungry and the suffering<br>as I've heard several people did inconceivably even in Auschwitz, <br>just to make things better a little bit, if I could, <br>though I feel like fog trying to put out a forest fire, <br>knowing among the selfish and indifferent, <br>a gift is a kind of minority protest <br>that you have to keep an eye on before it gets out of hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Reality's just a truce people make with the way things seem <br>and what they don't understand, a consensus <br>of poll-watching dilettantes who average out the crucials<br>in advance of random happenstance. Perhaps. <br>Reality can be any kind of copulative verb it wants, <br>The chimerical fire is whatever you imagine it to be, <br>but what it does, whether you agree or disagree, <br>is what moves me to underground rivers of tears <br>that flare up like the pale fountains and grails of the morning glory <br>to want to put it out, snuff it like a black candle, <br>or smother it in a pillow of its own smoke.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To die, yes, the wildflowers can do that better than us, <br>and the animals enter death as if they were observing<br>the protocol of an instinctive nobility greater than ours<br>but to die, to suffer and die inexplicably, to see <br>the labour of billions of light years of stars, enduring <br>extinction after extinction to express their shining in us <br>as if we were the content of the message <br>they sent on ahead of themselves and we can read<br>so much so intimately like the ancestry of the universe into it<br>like a child's eyes, or the luster of a lover's hair <br>in a moonrise, or the second innocence of an old man <br>who smiled upon us because he knew he was younger <br>than we were, and the return journey <br>was better than the first because from cradle to grave, <br>he knew the beginning walks with us all the way<br>like a star through the leafless trees <br>that's following us home at night down <br>one long, shapeshifting road of shadows and dreams <br>to one particular gateless gate that unlocks us from our chains. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">To die in ignorance of why, though we guess convincingly. <br>To love deeply and see what we've cared for, <br>unspared and squandered as if time had no more use for it<br>and there was nothing rare or precious that wasn't rendered <br>more fatally vulnerable than a bubble in a world of thorns <br>for the cherishing of it. In the brevity of our becoming <br>who could ever claim they were who <br>they were supposed to be in the eyes of the mystery <br>of what we're doing here in the first place<br>trying to wake up in time to find out why we doubt <br>our own presence sufficiently to labour a lifetime <br>to love the unknown well enough like a stranger in passing <br>we've never met, to enlighten our disappearance? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What doorways of farewell must linger in us yet<br>for all the graves we've already filled<br>with everything we've ever loved, autumn after autumn, <br>like wild grapes or a waterclock of hearts, <br>each trying to fill another's bucket of emptiness <br>with the rush of their own blood <br>like the emergency exit out of a burning theater<br>featuring a seasonal re-run of the lies<br>we tell ourselves in the dark to make it through another night? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet here we are, like it or not. Unborn. Unperishing. <br>Delivered and flawed. Mortality longing for eternity <br>like a darkness it's already the ore of waiting to be refined<br>like stars emerging in the night, flowers <br>from the starmud of the earth and though <br>we have unbelievable conceptions of ourselves <br>that are capable of breathing in the light <br>of mystic atmospheres one planet isn't enough to cling to, <br>most of us still candle back to the earth we arose from <br>like weather balloons with the tail of a comet between our legs. <br>As a playwright looking back in anger once said. <br>Poor bears. Poor squirrels. Compassion kisses the burn. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">We get lost in ourselves looking for the grails of better days. <br>The secret's out in the open which is the best place to hide, <br>if you had a mind to, in this spiritual lost and found. <br>Now you see it. Now you don't. It sees you. <br>And you draw the blind. But the sunflowers <br>turn with the sun, and the waterbirds wait for the moonrise<br>and in the autumn of our lives, the flowers are extinguished <br>like the blue fires of the wild irises along the Tay River, <br>and there's a scent of smoke in the air <br>that makes your soul weep for the evanescence of life <br>and how there's even a palpable beauty in the passage <br>of the fallen leaves among our gravestones <br>that's always a prelude to the great unknowns ahead <br>that can't shake the habit of haunting us like a ghost <br>from the future, summoned to this seance of now<br>by a mind reader channelling the wavelengths of the stars <br>light years before either they or we will even know we're dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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It's me that hurts. But without meaning to, 
I'm bleeding for everyone. A watershed of blood and tears. 
A reservoir of pain. Not all my own, I drink 
before anyone like a hummingbird, or a..."></div>
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