Victor Coleman

As we leave eternity behind us,
living only for the moment,
the future becomes tangible,
all the mystery is past.

The seasons are trapped in their gardens
& History grows on trees.
The battlefield is strewn with little farms
bought by the loyal & patriotic.

In the hills the renegades plot their retreat.
Undefeated, they withdraw, secure
in the knowledge of their own mortality,
while the armies of authority lay down

their laws, their arms, then their souls
at the feet of Time, the new dictator.
There is no moment that is not filled
with all moments, pure information

that blocks all that negative speculation
leaving only poetry & hand signals,
unilateral passages, no second guesses,
insurance against the Millenium.

Having never arrived, we assumed
there was no place to go, so we stayed.

The East Village Poetry Web