The more one journeys deep within
the less one can communicate
the stunning gems one finds therein.
At least that’s what I’ve nowly found
while sounding out the innersphere
of knowingness — the fount of all
our growingness (and flowingness),
all words drowned in the waterfall.
Even lifelong dedicated wordsmiths
(having no more axes left to grind
or gold-leafed paragraphs to shine)
when carving literary sculptures daily,
morning through to dawn, are silenced
by the sights and sounds of inly play.
Despite my awe, I cannot here display
what I have found within (and more).
We may use words like “goes within”
but is it “in” at all? I’ve learned it’s not
in any way an “in” or “out”; and so I craft
a double-word for journeys of this kind
which are akin to takemyboatfarouttosea
withoutacompassorthestars when there
are whirlpools all around [me wetful in my
lonesome raft] it has no sound or poetry.
Then when that vessel puts to sea,
the painters who stretched boundaries
like Dali, Escher & Magritte will gather there
and spheres declare that logic has been
so distinct that only silence can remain;
and burning brightly in my heart of light
[the spark gives up its right to life]
a molten candle with no name…
© Alan Morrison, 2016