Becoming The Overman

Written by C. Nicholas Walker

1

I've seen the highest of the bad;
I've seen the lowest of the good.
I've seen the evil daemons clad
Do all the worst they ever could.
I've seen the trading of the souls
For things bequiling e'er to last;
I've seen the best of future goals
Become regrets of futures past.
But all in all, I'd have to say
Those blind events of hate and spite
Are worst of things to come my way,
For then that candle cuts thy night.
There darkness gives no more a shroud
Than evil's heated light allows.

2

Ah, dear, the sweetness of my dreams
Rows saddled with the lighted moon,
And swims the sky like filter’d stream
In night, yet not in afternoon.
It’s opposition, thus, in day?
The sun in sky to trail after,
Heav’ns fire and night’s hot prey--
That present, pulsing pleasant laughter.
For years I watched the moon above
Play silly chases with the light,
So knowing when she caught her love
That day would certain turn to night.
Still the Sun, dream, the anything,
Ought to be caught without its wings.

3

Too oft a life may be seen as a point,
Calling a “Wherefore is a life to be?”
Questions that oft lead into disappoint
As they pilot so these false guarantees.
The truth in points is not the truth at all,
For it lives and it breathes and it changes--
All these things that may lead a man to fall
Through those sweet and those dismal exchanges.
We give the truth in the silence of words,
There are inconstants and not-all-the-sames!
The truth is soundings that no one has heard
Plainly displaying unknowable games!
If the truth is found on the tops of hills,
The truth must be dying and lying still.

4

The summer wind doth fly across the trees,
And in its arms there goes a scent of spring--
So silent glad are the waves of the seas
That silent too they carry merry rings.
And even in the sun that shines the ground
With the heated light of the starry eye,
There is no whisper or a shining sound
Along the wayward path a sun doth lie.
Yet hold, alas! There goes the silent man
Whose voice as the wind doth fly against speech,
Who speaks his words as do the waves of sand
Make toiling troubles with the brackish beach.
But here I speak my words in silence still,
And still in these resides the lives of will.

Posted by C. Nicholas Walker on Wednesday, October 04, 2006 at 4:17 PM | Permalink