“Strange days have found us
And through their strange hours
We linger alone”
– The Doors
found moments combustible
where my story was placed open
in worlds of intercepted malignant thoughts.
Crying disarmament of dire straights, drowning jest
to hold the gentle storms at bay, across ethereal spheres.
Strange days, those who know embryonic laws of truth. Nature
collapsing inward to sustain the plagiarised passions of each
newlywed chromaticity. Colours not controlled by swain,
stepping away from each common gain.
Strange days held sap and amber,
branches to govern by,
The universe blew by in time before the blink of human realisation.
Apparent colloquial reformation of the streaming dreams to planetary benevolence.
Was there temperament at the centre of passing stars? Conquered from the lines
of earthly realms. The cosmic embrace, where elapsed prosperity becomes thought.
Was there thought in such ‘passers-by’ as we? Strange days come at last.
Blasting the crumbling dimensions away. Here we stand on the cliffs of time,
calling between transient chimes. The then and when, both equal in relevance to the now.
Time is a created thing.
Each second triumphs
over our unfulfilled understanding.
And here we are again
standing on familiar shores,
Poem © Phen Weston 2015