Monday, October 15, 2012

Morning Herald

Cue the music of the light,
Dawns first ray becomes a fight
To overcome the stark lit world.
The hues of the golden herald
Do trumpet back with waves of sound
What is lacking, reveals what is found.

A blast of adoration, in dismay
Is the darkness! Set at bay
Is nothingness, and all its works.
For naught is it accounted, it's perks
But a vanishing smoke, a mist
That garners with it not a gist
Of anything that holds a form...
So evil is in fact lacking the norm.

Erroneous is the heart that's cold;
Transfixed by light it is made bold.
And music becomes the mind of pain
By sweeping back with gentle refrain
The curtains of illusory might
That held the soul, to it's delight.

Now grimaces the hand of naught
As though it would our hearts blot
With all the power it has left
Before it doth become bereft
Of any and all of it's lacking shape!
Here comes the sun, it strikes the nape
Of his back and he vanishes!
For the music of light banishes
All that does not exist, reveals what is good...
Now you too must reveal, as you should,
The better part of your day;
Lest you should vanish in the same way.

Look left and right upon creation,
Turn away from hells desecration!
What's good is not what's evil;
Like a bass is not what's treble.
Confuse them not, nor barter together
What is so separate, opposite; weather
The storm of your inclination.
The good of your individuation
Is measured only by the good that makes
Your eyes to see it; the good that slakes
All thirst from our throats now parched.
The herald storms like morning larks!

For what evil you do is nothing,
Returns from whence it was when spring
Had yet to form you within time;
Before the door of advent's rhyme
Did make the gift in which you walk,
In which you do breathe and talk!
Yet little have you to do with mist,
And more have you than mere gist
Which vanishes from the sun lit ray
Of mornings herald; for it keeps at bay
Only that which turns from it's task,
That which does in darkness bask,
Strays far away as lightening,
Doth flare and die in a bright string.

Now in the dwindling time I faint,
More understanding I cannot paint.
I must and shall depart this song...
But hope that you will sing along
The morning heralds blissful tune...
Or else I shall be proved a lune
To sing this song all by myself;
Perhaps to me it is such great wealth
That I merely wish to share
What did for me overcome the snare
Of individuality alone.
I do wish to atone
For times when I was less than right.
And glory in the end of misty night!
And what glory is there when you're alone?
T'were better that one be made of stone
Than to live forever in a nightingale
Where storms do brew forever a tale
Of dark, wind, unwholesome life
That doth brew for us only strife.

The morning herald's ray of light
Has come; so bid adieu to the night.

                 Morning Herald, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

No comments:

Post a Comment