Spiritual

i have been a scout and i have been a messenger
on the highlands of Hibernia and down in Timbuktu
a face full of Celtic runes and wrapped in fluff
i watch my party from the edge up above
alone and pretending to be the enemy for their sake
but the shadows tall tree trunks cast upon the ground
are all long lines that always grow shorter to noon
to turn from the climax of things to ease into its resting
	swoon
alas, i see myself too and from the edge a new camp is made
a new watcher is born in the face of the future
looking for a shiny niche in the bitter-sweet canvas
here where neither want of what is empty to be filled
nor to empty what is full
a place which is no place at all
where the campfires cease
and burn no more
all in all to be come silent as the night
all be it stark darkness or at full moon
to never find oneself again to be discovered
as the mission gets accomplished
	-as in to die
to unravel in comfort