Center

"Things fall apart; The centre cannot hold"

What if that's because your center is actually just another satellite, Mr. Yeats, spinning in an orbit that is sure to break your world in two? What if it's because the true center is as yet undiscovered?

"Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand."

Indeed, Mr. Yeats, but we know not the hour nor the day of His coming. 

"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"

The Lamb of God, Who takes away the sin of the world! But He is a rough beast, Mr. Yeats, for He has no majesty to attract us to Him, no beauty that charms the human eye. He is a carpenter's son, raised in Nazareth (can anything good come from Nazareth?), and He comes as a King, riding the king's mule, to judge both those who live and those who have died.

"The centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world"

The center cannot hold, Mr. Yeats, because it is but a shadow, seen dimly, as through a glass. One day, we shall see His glory, as of One coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights!

And in that day, the center shall hold, Mr. Yeats. The center shall hold.

(Excerpts taken from The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats)

Songs

Autumn is here. I see it in the way the leaves trade out their garments of green for red and orange. It seems even the trees have fashion sense, and who can blame them? Autumn is here, and orange is the new green, red is the new pink. 

Autumn is here, and there's something about the brown grass and the crisp air and the dead, cast-off tree-clothes crunching under my feet. Why does this time of sleep and death and endings speak beauty instead of pain? Autumn is here, and my heart is inexplicably moved. 

Autumn is here, and the rocks burst forth and cry to the sky of the Voice that my lips so often forget to mention. Their songs are enough to awaken my soul to the truth of what it all means.

Autumn is here, and I sing. I sing of summer's death, I sing of early shadows, I sing of fallen leaves, of wind whipping across my face, of dappled sunlight, sweatshirts, and watery eyes.

Autumn is here, and I sing of the Voice that speaks it into existence this year, as He has every year previous. 

Song of the Watchman

Forsooth, I thought a guard I was,
Beyond my means no challenger
But challenged by a questing mob,
With bricks and shards in ready hands,
To break me under heavy load
And cast me to the vicious teeth
Of dogs with mange and curling lips,
I break and leap from parapet
To fall upon the rocks of hope,
And gulls, they feast instead of hounds

Clad in the hues of gold and black,
Or so I thought, 'fore push (damned push!)
Came unto shove and painted me
Not gold, but yellow. "Heartless wretch!
You fail to guard from fallen-ness!"
What of my past? Of twenty-three
Who fell beneath courageous sword
And rose no more to threaten ye,
Does that not count? "Nay, verily!
Hast failed this once, your failure lasts."

Break, break, you fool! Now hope no more
For faith and courage lose their joy
And thankless life you treasured once
Now turns to dust before the horde
"The fraud holds watch! He let them in!"
Let what? The rumours? Poisoned tongues?
I speak the truth, but lies ye hold
Inside embittered hearts. Unseen,
The joyous song now turns to dust,
I break my heart upon a dream.

Brothers

I looked around today

At faces--bearded, smooth, intent

On one thing: sharing life with me

The men at the gate

This gate is my heart

And I wonder at my eyes

They never saw how blind they were until

    They stung

        And filled

            And dripped

I looked around today and missed

What I never knew I had