Bonfire of the verities

My words are mere shadows
of the substance of what we are,
of what we have been,
and ever shall be.

I would burn them up
into a bonfire we can warm our nakednesses before,
and nothing real would be lost.

I am a man of such shadows,
striving to pin down like butterflies
dancers from our peripheral vision,
who open a portal between what is
and what is not,
and what could be,
if we could but cease seeking to stare it down.

In this fantastic world
there is no should,
except the long-ignored imperative:
défense de défendre,
it is forbidden to forbid.

So I may banish these wordy phantasms to the flame,
but their ashes leap out and dance around us,
taking our hands,
reminding us that all this- too may pass,
but words of love are eternal.
12/05/08, 1.40pm
In the grounds of Bankfield Hotel, Bingley, waiting for time to
rehearse, while tiny blue wings flutter by, and a thrush bubbles in
the trees