Unceremoniously, birds and frogs and men begin their songs
and I decide it better not to join them.
For all the wealth and health and warmth and rigor as the restless tide -- waiting for silence -- breathes and descends
timid, restless, afraid and alone
rusted metal of apathy and the forlorn sound of laughter very, very far away
across the hall wheat grows; up the stairs is moonlight,
and in one room, birds and frogs and men sing their songs
when the ground calms and ground returns underfoot and the fires are out
the wheat and the moonlight and the birds and frogs and men will be farther away yet
but in the throes of desperation for far-flung mountains and sleep and crayfish in the river and hands in someone else's hair
no songs will be sung.
in my heart's aching survival lurch -- mad, hysterical stampede as it is-- the wind will blow again toward fantasies and imaginations, sunlight and clouds waves' cold whispers and the wisdom of stars
but descend, descend, descend
what's done is not gone, and those echoes from away in time stampede themselves
surviving themselves on tantrums stubborn drama impatience's reward
because above the wheat and moonlight is a burden of love and company unwanted and my heart breaks for the birds and frogs and men who have since stopped singing
and that I decided it better not to join them.
oh boy another entry in the "(thing) and (thing)" naming convention i do for some reason. i very rarely write in the first person; i tend to save it for the more vulnerable pieces, and in that sense i think it was appropriate here. this one felt more like a journal entry. coming off of a long writing hiatus so this one's a lil rusty, but i like how it turned out regardless