Feb 2015
I am
Slowly dying but the satellite dish doesn't blink -
Just one pupil dilated
imploring why, ever upwards.
And my own hair, stained with grease
Berries stranded on naked branches age like a fine wine tinted rouge, poisons helds tightly behind fleshy walls
I am the puddle that does not know any better than to throw reflections of rosy sunset bathed brick buildings up to me, the viewer
Powdered dusk gathers in crevices under my eyes, monumental and fixed.
In the space between my sanity and my psychosis, you found me and now I am
a winter scene:
Your snows silence all that vibrates with life
and
the light from your street lamps glimmers deceitfully on reconstructed ice crystals coating the meaningless powder underneath
The poplar, by now long dormant, remains indifferent to the pseudo-charm of the perceived purity of it all and I am the satellite dish with one pupil fixated on the sky above, imploring when?
And we cycle again, and my oil stained hair is no match for the clouds of ash above, the ash I so carefully tip from the lips I am parching with reasons unfathomable.
In the darkness I wonder who sleeps, who labors, and who is stricken awake with questions unanswerable.
Oh, vagabond! Come to me and show me the way out!
Erase these pale purple vales fluorishing under eyes fatigued and point me in the direction of trees singing overhead so I may be part of everywhere.
Oh, rapscallion! Wipe your dirtied feet and embrace my soul, so weary with travel.
Smooth the wrinkles from my eyes so I may see clearly once more!
I cannot tell you what I am,
Besides a bag of knotted entrails wound tightly in the space between -
My sanity and my psychosis -
In the space between my bones -
I know not what I am, but I may be memories -
I am a wrinkled space with mattified nighttime sky in my crevices -
Do not call me for anything but what I am, for I am no beast of higher powers.
I am, perhaps, that bat tearing through inky space with webbed fingers -
clawing through the space between -
My sanity and my psychosis -
I know I am the hay fields, cracked and bent
I know I am not a thing to touch, to forget
But I know all things must end, my delicate one
and I hope you will remember all that I am and all that I am not
Every time you feel that familiar ache in the wind.
Slowly dying but the satellite dish doesn't blink -
Just one pupil dilated
imploring why, ever upwards.
And my own hair, stained with grease
Berries stranded on naked branches age like a fine wine tinted rouge, poisons helds tightly behind fleshy walls
I am the puddle that does not know any better than to throw reflections of rosy sunset bathed brick buildings up to me, the viewer
Powdered dusk gathers in crevices under my eyes, monumental and fixed.
In the space between my sanity and my psychosis, you found me and now I am
a winter scene:
Your snows silence all that vibrates with life
and
the light from your street lamps glimmers deceitfully on reconstructed ice crystals coating the meaningless powder underneath
The poplar, by now long dormant, remains indifferent to the pseudo-charm of the perceived purity of it all and I am the satellite dish with one pupil fixated on the sky above, imploring when?
And we cycle again, and my oil stained hair is no match for the clouds of ash above, the ash I so carefully tip from the lips I am parching with reasons unfathomable.
In the darkness I wonder who sleeps, who labors, and who is stricken awake with questions unanswerable.
Oh, vagabond! Come to me and show me the way out!
Erase these pale purple vales fluorishing under eyes fatigued and point me in the direction of trees singing overhead so I may be part of everywhere.
Oh, rapscallion! Wipe your dirtied feet and embrace my soul, so weary with travel.
Smooth the wrinkles from my eyes so I may see clearly once more!
I cannot tell you what I am,
Besides a bag of knotted entrails wound tightly in the space between -
My sanity and my psychosis -
In the space between my bones -
I know not what I am, but I may be memories -
I am a wrinkled space with mattified nighttime sky in my crevices -
Do not call me for anything but what I am, for I am no beast of higher powers.
I am, perhaps, that bat tearing through inky space with webbed fingers -
clawing through the space between -
My sanity and my psychosis -
I know I am the hay fields, cracked and bent
I know I am not a thing to touch, to forget
But I know all things must end, my delicate one
and I hope you will remember all that I am and all that I am not
Every time you feel that familiar ache in the wind.
