The eyes evolution

(Uncompleted)
At first sight
the garden consists
of light
and shadowbroken mists 
of brown and green
in a formless daze 
whose sheen
is a glaze
in your eye

But by
and by
the earthed sky
sandwiched between backdrop 
and telescoped
props
grows unroped
with perspective
and stretched shoulders
and begins to live
like boulders
rolled from the mouths
of sepulchers
and souths
cease to obscure
norths and easts wests
and sharpening shapes
wrest
free of the scape
to stand
in isolation
and
also in relation

And all along
you knew
where each thing belongs 
in the view

Yes, and you see
for a moment and almost 
immediately
that that mixedup host
from the lowest 
lightningstruck stump 
to the highest
trump
and the tenderest shoot 
to the hardest stone 
shares one root
and one alone

And then the vision slides 
to the blind
side
of your mind

And it sticks

And your disoriented eye 
picks
a butterfly
as a point of reference 
and proceeds
thence
to feed
on flashes of color

For beauty always 
takes the first hour

And horror takes the day

Yes, crushing horrors lurk 
in ambush
in the woodwork
and rush
forth in snowballing legions 
once a breach in the bounds 
of those nether regions
is found
in that first 
antbite 
that worst 
sight
of a worm
pinched in a beak 
squirm
too eloquently to speak

It confuses

And the garden 
loses
that golden 
gloss

And then
the loss
is driven
into the labyrinthine catacombs 
of forgetfulness
that honeycomb 
your consciousness

And though it languishes 
in the dark
nothing extinguishes
its forlorn spark

And you quail
under
the coming hail
and threatening thunder 
and rattle along 
experiences bars 
reaping per song 
multiple scars
and conclude
that avoiding pain
is the sole good
and all else in vain

Death seems
a welcome goal 
and life a dream 
shot full of holes

But doubt
from within
or without
dawns like the grin 
of a skull

It surfaces
in a barren lull
in the ratraces
from halfremembered worth 
or owes
its birth
to some special nose 
standing out from the crowd

Never mind its genesis

What rings loud
and clear is
the fact
that theres no skull made 
with lips to contract

That grin never fades

Aftertastes
measure their weight 
against the unrolling wastes 
and maybe wait
(you think)
just around the bend
like a drink
at the deserts end
and give you cause
to
pause
as do
fears
that you cannot
clear
the fire beneath the pot
in which
you stew

A witch
presides over the brew

What annoys 
cannot yet prevail

Drops of joy
tip the scales
and turn your face
to the morrow
and a place
sans sorrow
and all the while
time travels
by the mile
and unravels
a happening world
like
a furled
flag and a spike
in the gun
until
that longsought sun 
seems to be still
in the same
time and place
and all that came
during that waiting space 
seems a dish
you didnt taste
relish
gone to waste

And though the pain
you learnt
is etched in your brain
and burnt
fingers
the thing
that lingers
is its sting
and you look back
to yesterdays
and alas and alack
because they always 
seem the best
and you beat
your breast
and stamp your feet
until you grow
slowly aware
that it gives no
relief and gets you nowhere 
and the only movement 
that meets your eye
is the evanescent present 
slipping by

And you
plow
into
the here and now
with both hands
to make the most
of the shifting sands
and make up for whats lost
but halt
at the thought
of giving fault
and that dearly bought 
appreciation of the now 
withers
on the bough
as you dither
and dally
and think twice 
before you sally 
as if on ice 
being
neither good or bad
and feeling
neither sad or glad
but just being careful to pay 
servile court
to whatever power may 
be taking notes

And you know
in your inmost heart 
that there is more
virtue in the part
played by unrepentant 
rapists
who refuse to recant 
from swinging fists
than in your lukewarm 
approach
that seeks to avoid harm 
and reproach
at any cost
and find
yourself getting lost
in all kinds
of extravaganzas
sweet
as stanzas
wherein you meet
every
test
serenely
as the best
or go
berserk

And you know 
youre a jerk 
whos too faint 
to be a winner 
whether a saint 
or a sinner
and that you cannot gain 
that buried treasure 
through either pain
or pleasure
because they would tear 
you with their force 
before you ran their
full course

And so you suspend 
between
beginning and end
like the blasted scene 
of a battle
bare of grass
and bare of cattle
whose meanings pass 
through sifting fingers 
like the fallen heroes 
until nothing lingers
of their deaththroes 
but a ghost
nobody minds
lost
between the winds
or of their lusts and rage 
but a name
on a random page 
falsed by fame
or an outspoken
lance
broken
by the unseeing glance 
and you have a gruesome 
past and an unsure
but surely fearsome 
future