carried to my tomb

carried to my tomb with the smell of lilacs and incense, I die sleeping each moment, knowing there is a greater life awake than any I have been allowed in this dreaming. i grasp the instants of the sunrise but cannot lengthen its stay by even a moment, and here in this equatorial manse the streaming gold of the pink sky is fleeting at best. one snap of the all seeing camera and I have outrun time but lost the fragility of memory and truth. what gladness it is to be left free of possession and want and to be wallowing in the scorching of the all day sun, waiting for the plunge of the late afternoon that quickly brings the relief of darkness and breezing evening. the adoration of the altar and the scents of liquid oils and fragrant powders, the silky smoothness of the still warm air has not yet settled into the closeness of the night when only the flickering fan relieves the heated skin. what life this nightly surrender that waits impatient for a glimmer a frosty glow a chilly reminder of home that no longer glows but is a forsaken nostalgia, once alive and now prisoners of cardboard and plastic, containers of the emptiness that remains. in each moment all time resurrects and replays its triumph over nothing and crows for its victory against itself, for what is there but the experiences that have filled this life and every other lined up like little trophies and left in boxes or burned on the stones of the shore. expect nothing and that is what remains, until the body dies, there is little else to do but constantly give and give for every heart hungers and sees in you the light of a million sunrises, each a brief glimmer of the possibilities that have not come true. what life is this in slumber waits and each a tale of untold fortunes.