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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476735" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let it go, let it go, let it go, as if my soul <br>were sweeping out a season of unleafing, <br>sodden feelings, sodden hearts, the rose ruined, <br>cumbrous clouds gusting over the eyelashes <br>of the treeline like dust at the broom of the treeline. <br>Cold-blooded, shedding an old sky, half in, <br>half out, I dream like a snake thickening <br>in its own coils as the autumn turns soporific <br>of weaving a flying carpet of the roads I've walked <br>the whole length of myself alone at night <br>only to discover that it was me that was flowing <br>and every step I took burnt like a new beginning <br>as if I were firewalking a graveyard shift of stars. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you want to open the third eye of the needle <br>in the haystack of your mind, set fire to it. <br>What's left shining in the ashes is a ticket out of here. <br>The serpent's gone down the black hole <br>after a rabbit like Lepus at the heels of Orion, <br>like a gamma ray burst of annihilative clarity <br>and come out the other side of midnight in an hourglass <br>drying its wings like a dragon from the chrysalis <br>of an urn with the intensity of a furnace.<br>The world crowds out the truth of its own existence. <br>I'm pierced by the wounded insights of a butterfly <br>into the crazy wisdom of a flightpath without a starmap<br>that knows anything about where I'm going<br>or in retrospect, been. I've spent a whole lifetime <br>trying to mean what I see when I get myself out of the way <br>like an eclipse of fireflies. I experience the world <br>like an abyss with eyes looking into its own ferocious solitude. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know by the whirlwind I'm reaping, it's harvest time.<br>The whole earth's a silo and a grave. Wheat seeds <br>in a pyramid waiting to sprout like time locks <br>on their afterlife when the planets align with the sun <br>at midnight to wake them up from the absurdities <br>of what they were dreaming. How strange it all is. <br>How vague the assurances of our sacred doubts. <br>I try to keep faith with my absolute uncertainty<br>like the third wing of a bird hovering between two extremes <br>and though I'm full of dark energy, strive <br>not to be the antithesis of everything else <br>like the enlargement of space in an expanding universe, <br>where the stars are moving further apart everytime I look. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Formless, does the mind speak to itself in a grammar of things<br>like dark matter providing a vocabulary for itself<br>to say the world into existence like a gesture of light<br>to keep the heart from reading its fate in between the lines<br>of an overwrought nervous system rooted like axons <br>in a garden of starmud perishing like a potted plant in a skull? <br>Sometimes I think I've gone mad, the pain <br>gets so unbearable in this tragic mime of exile, <br>when I realize how utterly inane everything is <br>as the transients walk through the gates of their homelessness <br>like a stranger on a return journey to a place<br>that's irrevocably changed like a future that happened <br>in the wake of an absence that was always behind <br>whatever he was looking for when he left. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Are we just here to cross our own thresholds of being<br>like mystic deaths to deepen the solitude of our seeing <br>as if the seeing itself were the optical illusion of the light <br>that follows us like a guide lost in the shadows <br>of who we thought we were yesterday<br>like the past of a star with an extinct future <br>always catching up to us with news of the moment now? <br>Knowledge as the fossil of a future event <br>we're always trying to predict. Hairy stars <br>like toupees on the pates of our bald telescopes. <br>It's only when you hold your mind up to the dark <br>to look for the source of the light, that you realize <br>how lost you are and how many time-zones <br>can be cast simultaneously by the single shadow<br>of a waterclock running through the woods <br>like the mindstream of the Milky Way <br>we keep weaning ourselves from<br>like vulnerable gods hiding out in uterine caves<br>with umbilical cords as long as the Road of Ghosts. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I try to see the whole in my own dismemberment <br>like Kirlian light. A moment of union <br>in eras of separation, myriads gathered into one <br>that can't help transcending itself like a fountain.<br>Some look for the grail. Some for the watershed. <br>And some ask the living in the language of the dead <br>what it means, if anything, to be alive in the fall.<br>As a bush wolf calls out like the only witness<br>of its homely longing like a summons <br>on a hill in the distance that's heard it all before<br>and knows the ensuing silence is probably <br>the most comprehensively compassionate answer.</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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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476735" data-title="Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go de Patrick White" data-description="Let it go, let it go, let it go, as if my soul 
were sweeping out a season of unleafing, 
sodden feelings, sodden hearts, the rose ruined, 
cumbrous clouds gusting over the eyelashes 
of the treeline like dust at the broom of the treeline. 
Cold-b..."></div>
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