Posted by: Paul Chiariello | January 24, 2011

I Will Be Perfected

I laugh breaking winds

At your harvesting eyes

That look through me

As if sifting chaff


But there is no grain

Or pregnant seed

No pebble you can chisel away to

At the center of my mountain


I am a rock formed through the ages

I am a child’s white lie

A misunderstanding so simple

It cracks the white bones

in logic’s stiff crypt


I am reason made smooth, made fluid

By those same never-ending ages

Of underground streams and rolling water


I am a trickle of time

Seasons wishing for a newness

Of life or of death, granted


I am a soul born of other souls

Immortal, fragrant and living

Both in green leafed spring

And the closing of graves


I am that newness


I am a churning of suns into sunrises

Horizon after horizon

To catch the forever-chasing night

By its waxing-waning tail


A process

destined never to become a product


I am both the thought

And the speaker

I am both the wind

And the moved

And one day

I will be perfected

as I am.



~ Paul Chiariello

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