Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Andrew Fort Feb 2020
If only I could live among the
reflections in the water--
for they are more real
than I ever have been.

Though they may disappear
with a churning, gusty wind
or a starless night, aren't they
more perpetual than we?

Perhaps they are ghosts, shadows;
or perhaps they are just as weighed by flesh
as we are--but can we know?
How the grass is certainly greener there!

We are but specters of vapor, imprisoned
in our carcasses. Are we so human
that the intangibles, the ineffables,
the divine ideas are beyond our grasp?

How short life is, dear one! Is it not more fit
to remain for a while, emblazoned in light,
than to wink out of ****** existence
without ever having lived?
Which side of the reflection--the water, the mirror, the eye, is the real one? Are we on the wrong side? What do the people on the other side think of us?
Andrew Fort Dec 2019
Somewhere in the office complex
There is a cult
That dances in circles 'round a fire no one set
Staring at the flame
They scream in chorus,
Chanting the words
In absentium of forest,
No sacrifice of birds

But they are really quite tame people
Unlikely to be chosen by the devils
For their work
I suppose that they just want a contact
In the Underworld's Potomac
Where the devils lurk
And their families at home know nothing;
The memos have told them nothing;
Their deception is quite complete.

No one in the office complex
Uses any salt
The only use for Wi-Fi is for recipes
For the potions that they claim
Give enemies their curses
Render useless locks
Until someone reimburses them
For all their clocks

But no one has it in their job description
To sell hallucinogenic prescriptions--
Well, at least, not quite
Everyone lists lies on their resum├ęs
But none of them know anyway
If their pays are right
The one thing that they dream about
The escape they dream about
Is the ritual every Thursday night

No one quite knows
What they do in there
Pitched percussion;
Tufts of hair
Investigators
Have drawn a blank
At astral projection;
After that, they sank

The newspaper read that the members of the cult
Are all dead now,
But in the building where they once worked
One hears the echoes
Of spells sung in chorus
Of dances and words
The verses of Horace
The faint scent of herbs
I hope you enjoy this tribute to the workaholics of the world.
Andrew Fort Nov 2019
When we feel the night embrace,
We'll sing our lullabies.
When we go to sleep,
The moon will rise.
The stars will smile at our dreams
And the owls churr in the trees
And just when all is as it seems,
A song, like lace, floats in the breeze.
For it is nearly our time--
And this must be precious in our eyes--
For when daylight breaks,
The moonlight dies.

When we make it out,
Our angel sighs.
When we awaken,
The sun will rise.
Though our dreams were sweet,
Now we must at least try.
The morning we must greet--
For the days fly swiftly by.
So we must wake, my brother--
And in haste, we must rise
For before we can blink,
The sunlight dies.

When we make it out,
We'll hear morning's cries.
When we awaken,
The sky will open her eyes.
The clouds will pour forth their light
To us, and all their rain to the sea,
And the grass shivers with delight
As dew-drops glimmer like beads.
Hold on to these moments, love,
And keep them in your mind--
For when daylight breaks,
The dreams you had will die.
For my brother, Jonah, whom I love dearly.

— The End —