LUGNET News : ~1112/Poetry/Furlough/


Matt Hein / Poetry / Furlough /

Howling under the successive moon

from: Andogen, Rising moon. Written 08-21-03 By M. Aaron Hein.

In today’s society, we hold conviction to the commonly held belief that the moon, the lunar body somehow affects nature and its proceedings, yet we take its existence for granted, paying little care to it, as we go about our continual duties, anesthetized by our ingrained attraction to the sun. Interesting enough, for those nocturnal and pessimistic souls who reside on the corners of society’s shadow, the moon exists as this exalted and heroic body within the firmaments, invoking a wide array of emotions and for some, transformations in personality... however, could some of these pessimistic souls be simply shadows of ourselves, ones which, in dreams, embark upon pilgrimages the corners of reality, then return to us before we ever realize stepping off for a nightly furlough? This still exists as the unknown, however, if you’ve ever woke in the morning to find unexplained leaves or twigs on your shoes and clothes there may be a rational explanation...that being the arousing nature of the lunar.

Fall into that abyss during the late evening hours
with the lunar rising,
the pale moonlight which arouses,
cascades itself about you,

you realize that nothing it as it would truly
seem being flooded with such light, dark, foreboding,
a source of apathy...and you, losing perception slightly,
perceiving from differential eyes now that light has receded
into obscurity, replaced with the solstice ad its waning.
to undergo that sense of ingrained metamorphosis,
a temporary evolution so to say
between the boundaries of civility and
a region of uncontrollable
urges, to fight and die in rabid beliefs,

to howl into the wind

unabashed, to talk smoothly and chauvenistic. and yet,

to throw all your cares and worries to the ground,

shred them apart and
yet step away from them without any purpose
and yet, this process repeats itself in a constant fashion
and seems so similar, yet undiscernable

revisited so many instances since such an early age,
with the beckon of that moonlight
encroaching upon your eyes,
flooding them with such rampant and
blinding emotions,
ones which serve as a form of sense, to lunge

forth and howl at the world,
to abandon rationality for a sense of
fluent, angered communication,
like that transition between heaven
and hell, yin and yang,

it is a boundary not to be caused, but the opposing,
the altruistic seems just as awful,
leaving values of possession derelict,

so you’ll pick up the guns, the claws, those blades, abandon
your homelands,
your country
and walk that passage of the divide, past
those thorned gardens, the vallies of shadow and mist
to the volcanic rift which serves as a separation,
to cross that bridge barely supported,
to sense that air which cascades about

you,

a sulfuric,
acrid
and stinging sensation,
tread carefully across that gap which
buries your compatriots,
cross that hell to heaven, and once again back
with the rising of the sun,
to wake up once again

and at that point, never realize your
undertaking of such a pilgrimage
only to see your shadow and sense those

memories...

just barely, faded shadows of memories
unrevealing and all the concealing
so you continue about with your daily vigils
unaware
you’re bound by such a pilgrimage for eternity...
a cyclic revolution of character,
to undertake such unexplained forays and furloughs.

fin...

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