Thy Greatest of Mistresses, Solitude
Victor Allen Ashton hung from a cedar tree bough resting
Upon the sloping side of a Pacific Northwest mountainete -
In the manner of a bat -
Head to earth -
As the stars
Shimmering below him
Made him so tiny -
Remote and lost -
By their tarnal stature
So grand -
So lofty -
He exhaled into the the gelid midnight air -
So slowly as to enjoy the uncongruous mist -
As he watched the etiolated effluvium fall then fade
Against the fallen constellations of generations past:
Tarsus, Perseus, Auriga, Gemini
And what other gods yet may be
So real yet
He closed his eyes
And fell from grace
And into himself -
A welcomed helpless -
Enjoying the silent rhythms of the night
That came to take him in every direction -
Like a wafting wayward perfume -
Or the miraculous errant scent -
Of a wandering mountain... flower?
Of what could there be to say?
Beneath him a score or so of little bats -
Pallid perhaps only in name -
Hung amongst themselves as
A pretty patagial little mass -
Their bitumen-black eyes -
Far too unwise to be unafraid -
Yet wise enough to be unbrave -
Regarded him with a connate curiosity born
From a kinship both he and they knew
In a way only he and they could know
And a shame it was!
For it was their kind -
And his kind as well -
That knew all too well the misestimation by those around them
And those bearing the brunt of fear and ignorance and the
Unwillingness to cast aside their perceptions and misdoubts!
Who will be the one to question such things?
Who will be the one to stand up and think?
Is there anyone?
Anyone at all?
Nay oh nay:
The answer shall be none
For there never can be one -
For the answer is
Lost within the
Rhythms that are man...