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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476777" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Mystic Regency</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Blue hole in a swarm of afflicted emotion, <br>	I cannibalize my own event horizons, <br>		to turn off the glare of the lifelight <br>that boils my brain in delusional bleaches <br>	that present themselves as the truth. <br>		I have known nothing <br>but the fragility of a tolerable hell since I was born <br>	so I am not fooled into believing <br>		anyone stands on more than quicksand. <br>And yes, there are women and stars and flowers, <br>	orchids in the shadow of an outhouse, <br>		eclipses that draw the veils <br>off faces and hearts like shadows and eras, <br>	gold in the bones of extraordinary people <br>		who move like swans across the mind <br>easy in the grace and dignity of their excellence, <br>	and sometimes, for brief islands of serenity<br>		I am one of those, but only briefly <br>and only long enough for me to disallow myself <br>	the luxury of thinking I’ve arrived anywhere. <br>		If fireflies were once <br>the souls of unbaptized children, stillborns and embryos <br>	flirting with the night for salvation, now <br>		they’re the unbound abacus of joy<br>that has lost count of the days and nights<br>	I’ve stood by myself before a winter window <br>		and looked out into the darkness<br>and wondered if I am <br>	what I seem to myself<br>		or some other man <br>I’ve been looking for all these years<br>	better than I am, more courageous, <br>		able to absorb the bitter light<br>and sweeten it like wine. I can endure <br>	the miseries and sorrows, I can act <br>		when there is call to act, and I can see<br>into the dark corners <br>	where the spiders age their poisons without malice, <br>		and I can be a tree in the morning <br>just before moonset, and hear in every bird <br>	the lonely bell of blood that rings like time <br>		advancing the night with departure; <br>and feel the incredible onceness of being alive, <br>	the igneous beauty of the black virgin <br>		buried in the wound of my own mortality, <br>and the terrible longing that arises and wants her forever<br>	knowing she’s unattainable and yet prefers this folly <br>		over every other delirium of desire, <br>certain only of my own demise in the attempt<br>	and the fanatical universe that decrees it <br>		as if it were heresy to try, <br>but never, never in those depths <br>	have I ever understood so much <br>		as a hair on her head, not even <br>an eyelash of insight to show for all my agony, not<br>	a word from her lips <br>		for all that I have sung and seen of her, <br>that wasn’t a falling rose-petal, a kiss upon the skull<br>	that gapes at her feet <br>		like the cold stone <br>of a full October moon rising over<br>	the lean fields, the empty silos<br>		of my devoted desolation like a crown.</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=476777" data-title="Mystic Regency de Patrick White" data-description="Blue hole in a swarm of afflicted emotion, 
	I cannibalize my own event horizons, 
		to turn off the glare of the lifelight 
that boils my brain in delusional bleaches 
	that present themselves as the truth. 
		I have known nothing 
but the fragil..."></div>
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