~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
from whence wisdom comes
of the wisdom of the child, from whence it comes
she comes to me a
recognized believer,
a poetry rising star,
in private whispers,
to true confess,
a sixteen year old girl,
born to the role of
high poetry priestess
not asked but offered
to an old man
whose wisdom now
leaves his temples
with the scheduled departure
of each breath
she tenders
her secrets, her heritage,
her impositions, the sources
of her belief, and by and from
the vibrations of wall wisdom,
and inspiration retransmitted,
she is made even more tender
*"the source of
what I know,
comes not from within,
but from without"*
before she writes
she listens
she recites the histories
of her ancestors
stored in the walls
in the walls of every room,
whether painted flat white,
or fire-breathing breathless beige,
or good luck red,
cracked, stucco'd or spackled bare
even if in fabric dressed,
no matter, all whisper
to the child woman
*of this, I speak,
of this, thee tell*
the living and the dead,
their words recorded, deposited,
in a banque of brick
from past to future
given to her,
to be wise,
to be and by,
to share
in the train car,
in the hotel room,
all that ere spoke,
every predecessor passenger,
their words customized, bespoke,
she hears, she knows
this secret shared,
this greatest revelation,
the old man shakes his head,
weighted down with
grief and sorrow,
thinking silently to himself,
lest his walls' eavesdropping ears hear,
***poor child, she is wise
yet, she is cursed,
in exactly,
the same manner as me...***
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
from whence wisdom comes
of the wisdom of the child, from whence it comes
she comes to me a
recognized believer,
a poetry rising star,
in private whispers,
to true confess,
a sixteen year old girl,
born to the role of
high poetry priestess
not asked but offered
to an old man
whose wisdom now
leaves his temples
with the scheduled departure
of each breath
she tenders
her secrets, her heritage,
her impositions, the sources
of her belief, and by and from
the vibrations of wall wisdom,
and inspiration retransmitted,
she is made even more tender
*"the source of
what I know,
comes not from within,
but from without"*
before she writes
she listens
she recites the histories
of her ancestors
stored in the walls
in the walls of every room,
whether painted flat white,
or fire-breathing breathless beige,
or good luck red,
cracked, stucco'd or spackled bare
even if in fabric dressed,
no matter, all whisper
to the child woman
*of this, I speak,
of this, thee tell*
the living and the dead,
their words recorded, deposited,
in a banque of brick
from past to future
given to her,
to be wise,
to be and by,
to share
in the train car,
in the hotel room,
all that ere spoke,
every predecessor passenger,
their words customized, bespoke,
she hears, she knows
this secret shared,
this greatest revelation,
the old man shakes his head,
weighted down with
grief and sorrow,
thinking silently to himself,
lest his walls' eavesdropping ears hear,
***poor child, she is wise
yet, she is cursed,
in exactly,
the same manner as me...***
I share her secret with you, our secret but not her name, never...and I gift her this as my praise worth far more than any false number of reads or hearts.
12:37am May 8, 2014
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