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ashby-brownPoems
I was there Beneath it all Stubbing my nose Catching my eyes On the most soulful of gifts There was a promenade Then music A chef in a tall white hat Shouting at the top of his lungs As cracked eggs Desperately tried To reimagine themselves As whole again. They did not wish to change. I am a poem And I am nothing I am a man And I am nothing I am a before Yet to embark On an after Could this be it? I think of What could have been If I had done this If I had done that And switch Paralyzed. The horizon Fades at dusk And is reimagined At dawn How I wish I were content To be ok With such a simple Routine Progress Achievements Recognition Advancement Awards Realization The ***** turns to tighten To hold Only to rust Be forgotten Put in the back of the pantry Read from afar The days of the sun Are over Darknesses lengths Are upon us Taste of the hubris of the moon Its position is fixed Such a fact, such a reserved space Where will the moon go But anywhere But here? And of us? Where will our bones go? Our me minds? Our fleeting psyche? The I is none other But the billionth petal Of a flaming sunflower In a field Surrounded by the identical Taste ash Mixed with honey As the buzz of the bees Fade.
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Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 2:25 AM UTC
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I was there Beneath it all Stubbing my nose Catching my eyes On the most soulful of gifts There was a promenade Then music A chef in a tall white hat Shouting at the top of his lungs As cracked eggs Desperately tried To reimagine themselves As whole again. They did not wish to change. I am a poem And I am nothing I am a man And I am nothing I am a before Yet to embark On an after Could this be it? I think of What could have been If I had done this If I had done that And switch Paralyzed. The horizon Fades at dusk And is reimagined At dawn How I wish I were content To be ok With such a simple Routine Progress Achievements Recognition Advancement Awards Realization The ***** turns to tighten To hold Only to rust Be forgotten Put in the back of the pantry Read from afar The days of the sun Are over Darknesses lengths Are upon us Taste of the hubris of the moon Its position is fixed Such a fact, such a reserved space Where will the moon go But anywhere But here? And of us? Where will our bones go? Our me minds? Our fleeting psyche? The I is none other But the billionth petal Of a flaming sunflower In a field Surrounded by the identical Taste ash Mixed with honey As the buzz of the bees Fade.
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ashby-brown
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 2:25 AM UTC
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