Over Those Hills Still Climbing, And Heaven Opened Hence

Over the ridge called revelry,
The sycophants and sorry seeds,
Acurse the axis, and her needs,
Along the broken moors.

The trumpet calls on satyrs grove,
Tempt the fair skinned silver love
To hover close, and golden dove,
The summon of the old ways.

Wailing wisdom from the rocks,
Across the acrid waters deep,
Forsworn the souls the soils keep,
And answer do the sailors.

And up upon the haloed rocks,
The infants on the stepping stone
Enchanting mystic, gnawing bone,
The incidents unnoticed.

Beneath the steppes, under bay,
The Barons of the tepid tombs,
Around the orbs of solace glooms
And seeking shelter call out.

Revealed the lower waiting pools
For haunting nights,in holy sight,
Design the nightmares false light
Charon whispered hence:

(And I did abhor)
“Death Is life without a cure,
And reaping lost, reveal the pure,
We count your days until we see,

Last breath caught and slipping,
If to God or me you know,
Or yet the seas of souls you go,”
And over those hills still climbing;

I now ascend that twining peak,
Suffering Looking oft,
He boatman smiled soft,
And Heaven opened hence.

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About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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3 Responses to Over Those Hills Still Climbing, And Heaven Opened Hence

  1. Jingle says:

    divine words,

    death is life without a cure,
    true.

    thanks for joining JP…

    A++

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