People write about the city lights,
how they glimmer and shine so bright,
but all I see is a man made mess,
infrastructure, nothing more, nothing less.

Unkempt properties and sewage scented streets,
under dim lit lights and fluorescent flickering signs.
I'm driving through vast fields and flourishing forests,
that were torn up and toppled when man arrived.

Light crackles over muffled buzzing,
waving, smiling, gently loving,
happy faces and happy places, caught in time.

History flickering from a tiny roll,
people sitting in swimming holes,
the purest bliss and happiness, caught in time.

Young people and old ones,
sharing laughs with one another,
old age is non-existent, just this time.

And as I stare at a TV,
and watch my history play on screen
time is just a word to me.

My age is carved in the trees,
in the bark that breaks so brittle.
My age is sown in the sky,
that looks down on me, so little.
My age is blended in the seas,
and carried upon the waves.
My age is deep in the dirt,
in the intricate ant maze.
My age is the sun, the moon, and the stars,
the nebulae and black holes,
the reckless behaviors of the young and old,
my age is the ever expanding universe.

Every time I return to your new home,
it's a chilling affair,
as I roll in on four wheels and a prayer,
my hair stands on end,
and dances in the wind.

Stone cold silence greats me each time,
when I emerge from my car,
and sift my way through the yard,
tromping above the dead,
shoes filled with lead.

It's a stone and granite garden,
marble here and there,
a stiffness in the air,
that hangs right around your feet,
holding you in place like concrete.

I kneel before the dirt and rocks,
and press my hands in deep,
in an attempt to try and feel,
your touch reaching back,
through 6 feet of disconnect.

And I swear I feel your warm touch,
and hear a bad joke whispering in the wind.

you straddled
my mind with
the way you
drew a narrow
line between
what i knew
about you and
what i have
come to find
but you raddled
my body with
addle-brained
designs, never
once drawing
one of a benign
kind.

© Matthew Harlovic

A sole spotlight, a moonbeam bright,
finds the boy in the dirt on a cold black night,
and the arctic winds howl,
stifling the voices of those who doubt him.

Beacon of fire in the cold night sky,
her moonbeams raise the Imperfect Son,
from the ashes of a life that ended twice,
a life from which the joker would run.

From the molten heart of the life he despised,
naysayers cackle and close their eyes,
for the moonbeams burn those who doubt,
the love that raises him from the Earth.