'The Tree
at the Edge
of the World'

the tree stands by the overpass
half alive and dead,
three crows on the topmost branch
waiting to be fed;
the world spins out in torrent blues
and streaks of crimson red,
a flash in a pan, and a storm in a cup
and a battle in my head...

a burst of blinding light
makes me close my mortal eyes,
and I hear the secret wisdom
of a child's lullabye ~
a perfect understanding
with no need to wonder why;
and I swim into the darkness
of a disenchanting sky...

into a shifting paradigm
where reality's entombed,
and arcanic methodologies
are waiting to be used;
they are influenced by feelings
but are shaped by what you do ~
and it never needed to be real
in order to be true...