At the end of the journey lies the past,
marking time in a gentle rain.
Cause and effect hold the last layers of truth,
barring some from greater gain.
Lift up life's carpet
and spy more than discarded dust.
Reach beyond the cobwebs
and discover the bald edge of trust.
Seek the loose board in a white picket fence
and pry it forth with strong hands.
Climb through hell to a newer place;
accept its banner and try to stand.
Your ultimate goal may encompass much that is false,
yet more that is true.
Find your abstract muse;
choose the way that speaks and accept what is due.
In the cold peace of dawn
a gray fog rolls in,
And I can see a pale light
where before none has been.
Out of a measured silence comes a vision
of substance, unclear and malformed.
My untried muse speaks
and wishes her gates adorned.
So I search my deepest depths,
past knots of confusion and black fear;
beyond reason and knowledge to the eccentric,
past the rational to the queer.
Mu muse sends me to a far shore,
demanding the treasure there buried.
But I cannot seek it, for I am afraid.
There is more truth than I can carry.
My muse is relentless;
she knows no fear of ghosts nor of shadows.
She pushes me stronger, drives me;
leaves me no choice but to go.
She knows the shortness of life,
the futility of twisted, discarded ways.
A path left unexplored
is a regret to the end of days.
And then, within a pocket of dark memory,
do I find the silent barrier.
It reaches out to me, and I to it,
through infinite swirling color.
Can I face these most intimate demons?
Will they let me be free at last?
I hearken to the abstract muse;
hear her sing and seek a peace with the past.
It is a long struggle,
filled with much pain and self-loathing.
But it is necessary to be rid of disgust,
as one discards useless clothing.
Finally my muse brings joy
and offers release from old haunts.
At last my mind can drift,
no longer prisoner to lonely thoughts.
To break such a chain
is not as simple as unlacing your shoe.
You must step free of your soul;
ignore all warnings and plunge through.
Seek your abstract muse to guide you.
Ask and she will show you a path.
But be certain that you wish it,
for she demands success or feeds you her wrath.
A thought is precious;
it requires searching before it fits upon the page.
The forming of true ideas is the province
of any mind allowed freely to graze.
Remember the abstract muse,
and leave a light burning if you care to return.
It helps to look backward,
if only to find strength to live and to learn.