Purple radiant heat
Reverberations of
Exclamations
Horrific holograms
Reality has received;

Testing teapots and
Tourmaline jewelry
Shattered on the wood floors
Fluorescent firecrackers
For days upon hours;

The nape of the neck
Where yours should be
Sheds blood
Pulsating the prophetic
Paralyzing truths;

Home is a verb, the
Truly inspirational
Deception of defeat
And the drip drip drip
Of disillusioned ichor

Once again, I follow The Old Road.

It’s a way paved and trodden long
ago by steps as disillusioned as
mine, and as blinded by the milky
fog filling lungs like frigid smoke.

When we’re lost, we believe it’s the
swollen feet and crooked spine and
chattering teeth and the burning mind
that are our ailments.

But time is our disease, ill spent and
driven off and engulfed while expecting
something different, something more,
for promises not made.

All the while death sings its ageless
lullaby louder and louder until the
only promise ever kept thrusts 
the dusty sting. 

But I won’t learn. I refuse to
pay attention. 

Once again, I follow The Old Road.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

daughter

i hope you never learn this:
when you find someone to live for,
it sometimes feels like dying.

there are some lessons a mother
cannot teach you

there are some sayings
that are lies.

Funny how
they never tell you,

When you find someone to live for,
it sometimes feels like dying.

Turns out I've been New Yorker for a while
But I tend to other business and I doubt I'll path the mile
For you see the city where I'm from is dense with garbage piles
I figured it's big and confusing and it's yet to make me smile
I don't come from there or from its region or really from a place worthwhile
See, my place is vast and I don't get it, it changes fast and is hostile
And I just can't key into it, neither mainland, nor the isle
So I figured that a Prague boy has been a New Yorker for a while

I found my autobiography on the fiction shelves in the town library!?

Okay, okay.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXXVI)


Ah, listen to the Scriptures as fr'intents
All that was day's gone to the dogs, in pale
Excuse for wanting now to write.  What'd hail
When I was working, had no time, and thence
Thought to ink later?  Blue skies cleared, a sense
Of April winked back through pine shadows, frail
Upon the melted snow's erm, puddles' tale,
And sparrows called for half a minute, whence?
How first John answers all that'd muddle fer
The umpteenth time what I erst thought I knew.
This vain dream I had thought was living, poor
As aught excuse, is only that:  dreams.  Do
We hear what Thou set'st 'fore us in this tour
Of breathing?  O that we'd walk, LORD, with You.

22Feb19b