Copyright © 2010 Ernest Bloom.
Time's sugary crystals have clarified to a translucent,
Chocolate-brown block, leaving us ancient butterflies
Suspended in forgettable, amber dreams. When granulose voices
Are at some grateful distance withdrawn we're purified on a
Rising rose-pink feathery dawning before the rest of the ancient world
Begins to stir, the familiar, quondam dust still recycled
Across uncountable nostrils. The old men put on hats
To keep the heat in and sit before opened newspapers in
Warm modern libraries, not so musty. There is too much
Turnover of words and interment of transient, interesting ideas.
After a while they may know they'll never find
Whatever salvation they're still looking for, and then they can,
Maybe, resume their journeys.
Hmm, I never was much of a newspaper reader myself. Indeed, we live in odd times of in-between and indecision, tethering on the border of salvation and damnation, life boredom and the infinity of bliss in some such holy grail afar. Butterflies transfixed in amber...hmmm...probably you coined my new favorite phrase. More apt and elegant than Lovecraft's 'we're an island and we were never meant to sail too far'
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