Hidden Cedillas

The day is a celestial dark, and charred with empty dreams.
I fear piteously to learn that that which I yearn to reap–is
A future blackened with heartless hope. My reality’s sleep
Awakens to find a melancholy dream as all that’s left of the
Bright of today’s light. Its Melody, so pure, lingers on the fringe
Of authenticity; it is a clever, living, breathing, surrealistic soul.
We reach for it in the intra-cosmic arena of the inner-self
Alone to travel as our Mind’s Eye turns inward. We are
Delivered from the ‘Others’ of hesitation’s sigh. Thus shall
The gift of this unsullied Mystery stir the soul, enliven
Dreams of promise. Then, shall there be apposite placement of
The Cedillas beneath those difficult, banal words. No longer
Marked by the dark, polar-cold that scripts the
Malodorous, solemn task of renewing a faith. Defiance hinders.
Others will claim their own diacritic mark. Their doubts hinge
On the fallacy that such events are transitorily short, without
Righteous reclaim. The untruth! It is the ventures born in the
Genius of a vitreous epistemology that burn bright the light of truth.
No armor or valor to sway tomorrow’s aim, all things coeval.
Reclaim, surreal melody, malodorous mystery. . .all truth’s aim!