the BLUE CHAMELEON

The wind in the trees turns them 'to crescents Pointing to the unknown distance

Beyond my vision.

And the wind sighs and brings a song

Of Endless Drifting.

Galaxies of Time spin webs of Dreams.

The mirrored lake where I swam naked among the lily pads

Has been lost somewhere in the forgotten past.

The lightning is so beautiful and so deadly, Just like so many things.

The Halls of the Castle attract me with their dark horror. The silken webs of the spiders have closed the entrances; And one must clear the way of cobwebs To walk these ancient and lonely halls. Here, sunlight filters through the shadows Like misty shafts of gold in the darkness.

Once again, I can see the face of the dead Prince Lying in his dark casket.

The soft curls of his hair like a raven's feather Against the silken pillow red, like blood. His face is so exquisite----as tho' carved From the timeless marble of centuries ago; But I know that it isn't, and that it is already Beginning to crumble into dust.

Yes, It is I who stands naked in the garden Trying to catch the rain in my hands. It is I who runs after the wind; Chasing what I cannot even see.

They tell me that burning my candle at each end Is my downfall;

But is it really so important to last a long time?

Some people are afraid of dying. Others are afraid of living.

I am only afraid of neither living nor dying.

At times I have been great and no one knew it. Does it matter?

And when the Harlequin says to me, "Draw Death."

I will draw him a closed eye.

When I try to think of the words to explain to you What I feel inside my heart,

I realize that there are no words.

The word beauty cannot be clearly defined;

And in the mortal mind of man,

God cannot be clearly defined.

Sometimes for me, the pages drift backward;

And I see that some words were written in smoke And quickly vanished.

Others were carved into the heart with a Glass Dagger. Some loves seem transitory, but they are not. They are permanent.

They are fixed in Time ----forever.

I am what I am, and I am many things;

And I know this:

I did not create myself.

The moon, that dead world reflecting golden light From the hidden Sun,

Glowed darkly in the black drapery of infinite space, As I walked among the giant broken remnants

Of the idols, which cast heavy, impenetrable shadows (concealing who knows what mysteries)

Over the abandoned landscape.

I looked down at my hands and saw

That they were streaked with my own blood.

I walked away from the decaying idols, Down to the ragged, broken shore At the edge of the Sea.

I waded there through the drifting waters, Gazing idly as I walked, at the foam Which rushed about my ankles.

I let my blood run into the Sea.

John Blackburn

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