by Lue Lyron/read by the Marc Kane
"Discovering A Candle for Silver St. Cloud"
By the continued smell of the candles, clove and cinnamon, I embrace my true nature.
My urge to make things as art to give freely away has served to take me this far down
roads that are my essence. Now, realizing even collected works and volumes are lost
in height, width, and diameter, at length, I reach for my cup, to re-associate me
with the fresh knowledge: what is three dimensional reality? Its questioning, when
taken for granted, yet remains.
And one man, paunched with age, still able to erect his spine and present a chest of
pride, is one lion. Even to breath, is much; to create and destroy, to love and to
hate, to read and to write, and ever to will to give one’s self away, defiant, yet
praying for mercy, the top of the erected spine busies itself with all manner of
pleasurable knowing, to gain the strength that reaches the peak, assessment. A touch
of candle wax pain on the finger tip, pictures by candlelight, of a story altered
when one lights a candle, and ghosts to whom we spoke return to us in smoke.
She loves the children, personalities. Babies grow and she envisions. Ever to give herself, for this she lives; having found herself, she thrives; yet must the toxins of these times release, the itch, the cough, the need to keep sleep against the work of a new day.
Quietly now, a sense, design, all beyond those we know;
To her lips, bring stillness, love
While mother, living, waits for snow.
