The Truer Secret

Some say a peak red moon

Is more like the roses’ beauty

Than a mad boy’s fallen

deeply beaten moment,

And no less than death

Than growling smoke

from armed mad fires.

But we let ourselves know never to think it

after the young sighing poet’s

playful most music,

from the mornings of his dreaming fiddle,

and void the sad cold-skinned lie

The green greedy rich man likes to say is sacred; 

and his blundered makings

of foolish invested darkness,

and his softless missing love

for things unseen.

The truer secret easily shows

the flowered road the poet bid us take today

and ever thereafter too.

And we must blaze 

to the things beyond the sun

To a good place to be

One she and he love

To this light above—love.

And be not overcome

like the thousands they are

in lives never suited, that go asunder

as yesterday’s bony wind.

Go to this light above: to love.

Go to this light above: to love.

Go to this light above

Go to this light above: to love

To love, to love.