are we the clowns of eternity's fair? <br />we who drink madness, <br />who are tortured by the smallest web. <br />we who pack daylight in cardboard boxes, <br />who follow the trail of the broom and blade. <br />we who dance on the ancients' graves, <br />who tear splinters from the fingers of god. <br />who destroy kingdoms of sticks and stone, <br />as if we dared to be the wind! <br />who bury our children with drunken desire, <br />and cling like leaves to their memories... <br />we who eat the fingers of the forgotten old, <br />and pray with footprints on abandoned porches. <br /> <br />ah, but all is not lost, or perhaps it is... <br />one never knows that which is not lost! <br />while joy falls like winter rain, <br />and love whispers in the ears of silence. <br />as the branches gather in forgotten nooks, <br />and steam rises from prayers of dung. <br />squirrels gather over brandy and broth, <br />stoned on busy and thoughtless heat. <br />your hand or mine, there be nothing forbidden... <br />where there are no maps desire leads! <br /> <br />i have no regrets, all is spent. <br />the curtain is drawn, the window broken. <br />history a vein on a leaf consumed, <br />by dirt, as all must be! <br />i want you, the moon still pulls, <br />the waves rear and turn with force. <br />till time is lost, and perhaps beyond, <br />to the darkness where beginning begins.<br /><br />Eric Cockrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/where-beginning-begins/
