The Secret Stead is the pen name of a UK-based writer and
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ead stars can still growlike a great railway line,
link by link
that reach us;
to think: even shells and rocks and water
leave their mark in a kind of music,
which sings in a blood that flows like a red river
in the very veins
and pathways
of our lungs; breathe deeply
and hear the rush of the stars;
let your mind
sing you its song --
that's where we belong
and where our dead grow;
for stars shot down are still stars,
firmaments of light
shine brighter in falling flight,
fields of wildfire
that burn in defiance to the night;
where bodies become
buildings of fires and Sun
to give back the light
that once shone; and where those left behind
sometimes forget
that all living things were
once part of other things,
and will go on to be part
of other things too; our atoms are made
from the chemistry of stars
that know the worth of being recycled;
how the broken chain is reforged
and strengthened;
how dying is a shining patina
that makes precious
the print of a well-worn life;
and that what looks old
at first sight can turn to gold
out in the fading fire of sunlight; yes -- sometimes we can forget,
briefly locked in between
the decay and desire
of flesh and fluids and being;
and we can be forgiven
for thinking
we're born to simply burn out
as celestial signs, failing to divine
whether life is a bond
that promises to pay
the bearer anything,or whether it's null and void,
and we pay with more currency
than the price it's owed; in the fear that yesterday endures
only in name --
and we are as the dying day
that fights in vain
against the collision with night;
and the dark corners of life
that are no lovers of light,
where nothing lasts
except the devotion to align; that in this breathing game
with life we play,
all we do
is move in and out
without any foresight
or accurate telemetry;
while the past and present collude
to bury the future
in the tomb of a black hole
that swallows what we had
as our time; yes -- sometimes we may forget, but
breathe deeply
and hear the rush of the stars;
to know we are yet
part of a place where
there are songs
that move in us
as steady as the sea;
the tide and time of which
make you feel
as though you've lived a century;
and you can count all the days lost
as though only a few grains of sand
in the palm of your hand;
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to echo the heady roar
of the shore of your mind;
a land of dreams
where you're as free as far
as your thoughts can fly,
chained only to the limits
of your sky
or the gravity
in your belly,
grounded by the wisdom
that death is but a chance
to become a leaf
on a tree, dancing
to the buzzing tune of a bumblebee,
or gossamer waving in the wind
one starry night
to a falling star
dying to give
so that others
may live with
such beautiful chemistry.
Published 30 April, 2012
