i.
this is where all wars
are born.
when the mind starts
naming its possessions
as the heart is
silent with its
sullen iterations.
this is where all
the forgotten revel
in the song breaking against
the premises of remembering,
or say,
dream's erratic fabulation.
this is where you lose
name and touch and relevance
to things. this is where
around me, all the mouths
shrill in commune and i am
left baffled in cottonmouth
reticence.
ii.
it starts with a syllable's
ebb as it tries to paint
in the canvas a face,
or a mulling over.
or the reel around
the thorny fountain of
desperations and youthfulness
dried out in speckles of
river-run laughter.
there is only a candle there
but the light splatters everywhere like true blood of
murdered flowers on walls
thick without sensations.
it begins when the heron
of your coming trills on
the ganglion - cathedrals start
a bell and the resounding of it,
the shattering of it,
the music of it!
iii.
death of a man is the
life of another, yet shy in
its genesis, brave in the exodus.
this will soon grow
arms
and feet and will lunge
out of each pained window and
then sleep in musical beds
oblivious of a body's retreat.
and from whence it started,
it shall end here,
it will blow out the candles here,
sometimes sing to itself here,
and perhaps pass this on
from here to another's,
without promise.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
i.
this is where all wars
are born.
when the mind starts
naming its possessions
as the heart is
silent with its
sullen iterations.
this is where all
the forgotten revel
in the song breaking against
the premises of remembering,
or say,
dream's erratic fabulation.
this is where you lose
name and touch and relevance
to things. this is where
around me, all the mouths
shrill in commune and i am
left baffled in cottonmouth
reticence.
ii.
it starts with a syllable's
ebb as it tries to paint
in the canvas a face,
or a mulling over.
or the reel around
the thorny fountain of
desperations and youthfulness
dried out in speckles of
river-run laughter.
there is only a candle there
but the light splatters everywhere like true blood of
murdered flowers on walls
thick without sensations.
it begins when the heron
of your coming trills on
the ganglion - cathedrals start
a bell and the resounding of it,
the shattering of it,
the music of it!
iii.
death of a man is the
life of another, yet shy in
its genesis, brave in the exodus.
this will soon grow
arms
and feet and will lunge
out of each pained window and
then sleep in musical beds
oblivious of a body's retreat.
and from whence it started,
it shall end here,
it will blow out the candles here,
sometimes sing to itself here,
and perhaps pass this on
from here to another's,
without promise.
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