Time’s ruse is that it appears to pass.
Every appearance, even voices,
are a special effect. These echoes
of the Invisible deceive me not.
Every instance of drowning I endured
came in the flood of something special.
Show me the One who never speaks,
and I will fall to my knees and listen,
unmasked, mute and reverent.
Change is the right-hand man of time,
his charlatan enabler,
the fragrance of sweet liquor
hanging in the aftermath of yesterday,
the drug of choice
for all those who would ransom
what can never be bought or sold, only given,
by hiding in worlds of unburned ashes.
If you can interpret it, or assign meaning
to or from it, then it will burn eventually.
You think burning means a fire, a blaze of glory,
but I say it is an ambush of a thing’s true essence–
fast time, a getting to the point.
Revelation is not an effect at all.
When You’re not around
my pain flowers, time passes,
and I resort to talk like this.
Caught in a cage that won’t hold still,
my longing makes anger look
like a silly board game.
I shake in withdrawal,
time’s trickery leaking out my pores.
Tick tock digital clock
the harbingers of time I do defrock.
Practicing the art of leaving
where I never was, I return.
Every moment is a prayer,
and every prayer this shift in focus.
Time is ill-equipped to handle this event–
can’t make sense of conscious lightning,
of our arrival at the willingness to Love,
of this everywhere-shared instantaneity.
What could have happened, some will ask,
if it looked like nothing at all?
What can there be that leaves no ash
in its Revelation?
If I am not a special effect,
then what am I?
I am that which leaves no mark.
This distinguishing characteristic
is all that remains after time’s fire has passed.
Do you not see it?
It is what we have been given.