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White Shadows (Scented Death: in Seven cantos)

we talk about death, because we are born for it. It is natural, and it is a way of telling how much you liked living; or can be. In this fragmented canto-poem, the journey is just a journey. We must live in preparation for the fullness of tomorrow, t

White Shadows (Scented Death: in Seven cantos)

By Dennis Siluk

cantos: 1-7

White Shadows [Scented Death]

1

Ah, yes, a cantankerous age indeed

is old age: so they say

the golden age. Somewhere along life’s line for me

there came a basis, a set belief: we all have our branch to perch on if we can find the tree.

2

I walk, used to walk the shadowy streets, ‘…now this is your day,’ says my second-self; ‘life has been a blaze.’ It is early March; ‘tis the time, the great day; there is no other like it –never will be. (‘Before I was, I was not, now I am, and

and soon to be again. It all comes out clear at the end.’ So says my second self.)

And it’s hard to leave something old—

things, just things, but nonetheless, hard to leave: anything, it all entails grieving.

3

Home to sweet rest: to waves of laughter; no more storms to clash against. Now sunlit

gleams over the horizon, fire and comets

shooting across the sky…;

dart to and fro; so many spirit filled worlds I want to explore,

get to know—go to.

4

‘It’s your day, your walk, your first step, to

the beyond (so says, my second-self

again!)’ ‘Twas all I ever knew, this world, everything else surreal! I suppose. I can no more say

what shape I’ll be, then when Venice will sink.

5

I have seen many faces in life, had many

breakfasts: some heavy, some light; watched the soul grow, decay, rise again. All within the next step: which often is, and one never knows—semi-dramatic….

Yes, O yes, we are all part of this marathon,

post –Donte? Whom shall inherit my garments—? I don’t

know, nor care; let Faulkner have them.

6

I will not dazzle future ages; no, not like Poe, or

Longfellow. Or shall I do tricks, or

showmanship; take the Nobel Prize and shove it; it only limits the visions of the Poet; confounds his wit, and spit he needs to write lyrics, stanzas and sonnets.

The pen and the man, does not always deal with

God’s plan, more poets live in a lie,

a burnished-mirror, creating voices they never hear, covered with clouds and clouds

and white shadows, in the great halls of

humanities waste.

7

Sailing the way of the wind, like us humans—do,

hence, how shall we (or is it I), die? None of

us want to, until the day it happens!...

I lived, dimmed, only by the cascading of time

within me; like a box of scented wood, when the scent left, I was gone, just like the white

shadows above.

we talk about death, because we are born for it. It is natural, and it is a way of telling how much you liked living; or can be. In this fragmented canto-poem, the journey is just a journey. We must live in preparation for the fullness of tomorrow, the next step, the one beyond. Subjective or objective, it can be depending on how you adjust to the direct treatment of things. Things are to me just things, made to be used, moved, and onward. I am a thing, and I must move onward. And because I can reason an afterlife, so there must be one. The transition is the point of contention for most people not the facts. We as humans compose in a sequence, the outcome, when in reality, the result of life, the gift of life, the sadness to leave it behind, is in fact, the product of somebody whispering into your ears: feel the poetry of death, it’s but a white shadow, like everything, the unknown, yet the premise has been set: as in a poem. I shall be geared up for death when it comes so I can roam the galaxies, it is my next mission. How do I know this: I bet in time, Venice will sink (how do I know that)

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