As It Is Written

My spirit dove
beneath the dark,
and clear again.
It sunned itself,
in fond belief.
Yet, still, it felt
a startling need.

Vacillation: oscillation
of dread alternatives.
Rise into elation,
fade into superstition.
Charmed in the recess...
Stripped, and turned.
Where? Grabbed at.
A bungled dream.

The waves recede.
They bear more
than you ever could...

Come, stranger,
softly, cough your cough.
Smile your smile.
For whom? The distant note.
Yourself: the garbled thing.