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jp-gossPoems
I watched through tears --That streamed like the one out back And the scattered clouds --The ones that floated overhead for years A twilit ridge inurn the sun. It was one of those rising hills of my youth, One my infant eyes always thought Gave birth to the moon Time and again. With its innocent face smiling That worldly crispness is lost And the foggy past is far more defined. Who are these forms I've lost? They are but phantoms, (I tell myself) And now intangible, those memories Acidic and dusted with sugar Held suspended and taunting, like Feet at the mouth of an open casket. The cold, bitter knives of impersonal Reunion And rejuvenated promises --Only now remembered, only now forgotten— Illuminated once again In the dark. Passing onward and through --Like our time together— Exactly like wind through these **** dead branches And this grave: winter-bare. I remember the vivacity How enlivened the sky, that I Each day for granted took And how so much smaller, in my youth, The mountains afar looked. But there is no home, It died when I left. The poison I fought Has become the blood which pumps the heart, Now corrupt, Antithetical. Nothing is more colorless, not sky, Nor hill, nor moon, Or ever more formless Than what I once called home. Now that only exists is deteriorated A rotting house: Four walls and a roof to keep Hatred dry, Windows and lamps, so Hatred has eyes, And all the people that Hatred hates most. How cozy it must be to sleep in One’s own bed, no? To have some stable place, And an ounce of certainty? As for me, that will never be Again. Though the house is open, Lock, room, and all The home is closed forever Without a proper epitaph. Vain death. Vain, Vain, Death. Now all I can only turn back And flirt with shadows Just outside my arms Walk with images Shifting, growling, and oh, so dark --mere abstraction --future so stark-- With no companion but defeat. I can’t hug a memory, Nor cry on recollection’s shoulder, Nor can my mother or sibling console me, And I cry alone. Maturation is merely widening a distance, so I should let them go, Bid them adieu Because, I can't be homesick For a home I can't go back to.
0
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
Homesick
I watched through tears --That streamed like the one out back And the scattered clouds --The ones that floated overhead for years A twilit ridge inurn the sun. It was one of those rising hills of my youth, One my infant eyes always thought Gave birth to the moon Time and again. With its innocent face smiling That worldly crispness is lost And the foggy past is far more defined. Who are these forms I've lost? They are but phantoms, (I tell myself) And now intangible, those memories Acidic and dusted with sugar Held suspended and taunting, like Feet at the mouth of an open casket. The cold, bitter knives of impersonal Reunion And rejuvenated promises --Only now remembered, only now forgotten— Illuminated once again In the dark. Passing onward and through --Like our time together— Exactly like wind through these **** dead branches And this grave: winter-bare. I remember the vivacity How enlivened the sky, that I Each day for granted took And how so much smaller, in my youth, The mountains afar looked. But there is no home, It died when I left. The poison I fought Has become the blood which pumps the heart, Now corrupt, Antithetical. Nothing is more colorless, not sky, Nor hill, nor moon, Or ever more formless Than what I once called home. Now that only exists is deteriorated A rotting house: Four walls and a roof to keep Hatred dry, Windows and lamps, so Hatred has eyes, And all the people that Hatred hates most. How cozy it must be to sleep in One’s own bed, no? To have some stable place, And an ounce of certainty? As for me, that will never be Again. Though the house is open, Lock, room, and all The home is closed forever Without a proper epitaph. Vain death. Vain, Vain, Death. Now all I can only turn back And flirt with shadows Just outside my arms Walk with images Shifting, growling, and oh, so dark --mere abstraction --future so stark-- With no companion but defeat. I can’t hug a memory, Nor cry on recollection’s shoulder, Nor can my mother or sibling console me, And I cry alone. Maturation is merely widening a distance, so I should let them go, Bid them adieu Because, I can't be homesick For a home I can't go back to.
Written by
jp-goss
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
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