Anthony Maio


... And We Shall All Live Full Lives - Poem by Anthony Maio

It is only the longest nights that find me dancing with the darkness - mockingly darting through what were once steadfast gates and lady-guard posts, now made incorporeal by ignorance, in deft leaps - and fantasizing that with each blind twist I make intangible the borders that lie between the Eye and the Out. In here, rapt in unseen ceremony, I am thought.

Tonight I want to talk to everyone I've ever met one at a time until I've heard all the words I always wanted to say and confessed the things I've learned since each one of them and I shared some small time together only to move on incomplete. I want to feel them - all those things from all those times - tactile, lucid and endearing; not as mere, vague memories of an alien soul and lost identity, but to savor and animate the very essence of each disjointed thread, spinning them into a beautifully woven tapesty of emotion, experience and enlightenment. One monolith, which resonates with the overwhelming euphoria and ubiquitous divinity of a universal conciousness, whose voice is an infinitely-layered collage of nothing but the gold and silver truths of pure and raw humanity; whose will is of such immeasurable magnitude that it drives each heart it transcends to chant in homogenous syncopation - a pulse which wails and mourns in penance for a hundred fears revered, a thousand dreams plundered, and a million moments lost.

These are the restless eyes that refuse to be shackled in chains of horizon! Tremble as these clenched fists plunge rifts into the oceans, unleashing serpentine plumes skyward to duel stampedes of untamed thunderbolts in a frenzied tumult of fang and hoof for ultimate claim to cerulean crown never heretofore contested. It is this force alone that will stand Nemesis to the vile pestilence of regret - whose armies revel in their pillage of the Now into the Then, forever marching as columns of temporal flame - and it is the inattainability of such understanding and focus, the spiteful taunt made by my own mortality, that maddeningly transfixes my mind on the brothers Void and Being, yet endlessly churns my spirit into a Tempest that will not be denied.


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Langston Hughes

Dreams



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Poem Submitted: Thursday, March 22, 2007

Poem Edited: Saturday, February 5, 2011


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