"dreamlike" poems
All strung
out
on
sadness,
empty shells
of needles
that injected
the next defense
to keep me going
splayed upon
the coldness
of metal
somewhere in a place
lower than
the floorboards
of the nether regions
of a private hell,
where no one sees
the truth behind
the doors of
beaten swords
of silken pictures
in frothy shades
of effervescent green
a smiling happy family
in which the
sounds of drowning
can only be
vaguely heard
a faded gurgle
in an ocean of sighs
Somewhere, there,
the pain in my veins
spreads like
a self-administered
drug
only it's not
my prescription, at all
just a parody
from the very
sick doctor
who shares
this house,
meant to
be a home
one who thinks
he knows it all
but knows nothing
In this dreamlike weaving
of staring blankly
into alternative spaces
when all is so heavy
that even breathing is a task
I suddenly remember
who the **** I am
and push my gaze through
the ceiling cracks
to look up at
the stars,
receiving their
shadows
of light
like a blessing
upon my
nettle-stung
tongue
and
rise
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
By my dear angel Sandalphon as he has been lead in my hand, leaving a clear trail of a cursive writing on a transient sheet of paper,
A crimson sight, so black that one would be caught in trance, reflected by unnatural light of a lamp flickering in the dark of the night, as his feather releases a sweet scent of fresh yet unused ink,
Together with Zadkiel's blooming and happy memories I then am capable to write such down, in an attempt to create poetry, focused,
The sound of scratchy, itchy, rasping echos through this room I inhabit, but already left spititually, engaged in the world of fantasy,
Word by word, the paper is penetrated by this pen, pleasantly, thoughtfully, gently sliding over it to not damage it by accident,
There is no need for haste, heartache nor rush, not is there the need to be concerned about this angels work, duty and his mission to accompany me throughout each and every writing which unfurls,
Alike a story from my mind, from my emotions, deepest wishes, cast on the physical realm with his help,
And once his strengh weakens, fades, loses might and goes out alike an dying ember he will be dunked in fresh ongoing determination, so that he can repeat his duties with exuberance, joy
Casting a smile on my face once literature has been created,
As then I lay my dark knight, my servant for the night to rest,
Until another poem has to be written and his duty awakens him,
After all, in this dreamlike tale it is well to remember;
You don't have to die in a dream
~ Umi
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Never will I return again,
It has been decided by an undawning night, restless wandering whilst following a red thread, not knowing where it leads or where it ends,
Followed by endless questions within a journey of true sorrow, the realisation hits me hard, will I ever be able to reach out for you, dear?
Swallowing the unspoken words, I keep on my journey, to find this end I'm looking after hoping it'll be at least, a happy fight to the finish
Without a sound, a tear running down my face, moistens the earth, reflected by my heart, which has faced a long drought of no emotions,
But now I am overflowing with them, more than I can convey in words, from now on, I want to face the coming morning with you,
Yet my words and wishes do not reach, the path is illuminated by the moon above, only a few clouds are to accompany his loneliness,
Wandering by a road, reaching to the distant sky, oh how I cannot escape this dreamlike tale, of what it is pointing to, softened by light,
Under the drifting clouds, even though the ages may fade away into meaningless numbers, with this unchanging life I can keep shining for you, alike the sweet and delicate,
Moonlight
~ Umi
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
What a face
"Sells"
Abruptly she yells
Matte burning dry
Just try
Too moisten her lips
She's the Red devil
From hell why does her
orange face peel sell?
The right color
a psychic won't tell
Wishing well drenched
He touched my orange juice
"All Frenched"
She loves to slice and
he peels what appeal
orange saffron sauce
One last juicy squirt
divorce
It's time for fresh squeeze
Too frozen concentrate
The happy hour "Orange" feel
no other place like fate
Ten times real
"One" face peel has been
love absorbed
Like lemon meringue
Tainted love
Bitter grind soft butter glove
Do you mind orange flame
(The Spa) sells to be loved
Tra la so kind all Grunge
Going "Wawa" coffee cruel
Other colors haha
Movie set Orange payroll
lounge tease squirt
But destroyed by the evil
spell curse
Summoned on sunburst
But we need the Orange
before the sun comes
Like clones orange, you glad
we have "Green Apple"
phones
One step beyond orange
zones
I don't want to burst your
orange sauce
Grand Marnier starry twist
of orange
Two timing orange yogurt
Taste to tangy it hurt
Hey Yo Orange peel Spa
Still sticks Orange Julius
flirt
O outrageous P pick
What turns us on and gets us sick
Plan your work and work your plan
Never offend her
Let's see the chef make you love her
Creamified dreamlike Whip free
The orange mousse pie
Let me hear it yummy to lie
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
Exhaustion,
Is what rings through my senses as I am about to pass out,
Quater past three, it has been me who wrote through the night until now, serene and clear was it's beginning which now only became a dark memory, recurring in my sleepy mind begging for slumber,
However, such are the thoughts of one who was too weak,
Knowledge was ****** into me, yet the chains of destiny remain bounding, almost tying me up to some sort, I cannot escape.
Oh how I cannot escape this dreamlike tale of misry and restlessnes,
Oh how I couldn't protect my heart in love from dying back then.
It all came to the point of no return until they were replaced.
But why not me ? What was it which I had left to do to go as well ?
Perhaps it was decided that it should have been so all along,
I shouldn't complain, even though humans live wretchedly,
Living and finding a new light to hang onto,
Is what I find very beautiful
~ Murasame
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC
Soft, gentle, like one of the fluffy clouds of the purest heaven above,
Free of all sin, of all filth of this earth and of what a demon holds in his desire or temptation within his wicked heart of devilish instinct,
While they carry you to your last judgement they glance at you,
Seemingly so dreamlike that it must be like a legendary illusion of an infinite being, cast upon you to grant you a splendid slumbering,
You will never be able to go back again, it has been decided that it should be this way, depart now my little soul, recieve your justice,
Recall your previous self, as these angels stare at you with roaming might, spreading their wings to appear more light, carefree and pure,
See into the dreams you saught to escape, now all agony, all sin and pride, envy and majesty are burnt away to rot within their light,
The luminousity coming from these fluttering wings, is so smooth it would likely make the worldly life appear to be in a darker shade,
Tirelessly, they are free from all needs, with no need for deep sleep,
Even if you tried you would be swept away by their sheer power,
These Angels had waited to carry you; until the moment you die!
When you reach your final destination, darkness or light will be what you may recieve, or may these wings which seem to be invaluable,
Be pure, then you are worthy of carrying angel wings.
~ Umi
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
Removing the little lace dress with its white hem I place it back on its chair.
The white hem radiates slightly enticing my naked boyhood once more
With its lusciousness, a savannah of continuous beautiful evocation
I sit naked and watch the little lace dress with its white hem
See it become languorous and dreamlike
I smell the exotic flora of its continued subtle seduction
It ripples softly in a slight waft of air
Like a breath blowing on a still pond
I cannot resist it, I am the trance of its hypnosis
Nothing intervenes, nor tries to prevent me
As my fingers fall for its flirtations
Once more I acquiesce to the most wanted desire
Of the little lace dress with the white hem
To caress the body of a fifteen year old boy
To become a second skin
I allow it to slide over me seducing my senses
Realizing the counters of my thin syrup coloured form
The words whisper again about my girls’ complexion
About my long black hair, about the body I inhabit, the likeness of a girl
I look once more in the mirror, they could be correct
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
A World in which free Thought is demonized
is a World seized by Demons
A World in which free Worship is demonized
is a World bereft of Sanctity
A World in which division of the One is glorified
is a World hopelessly mislead
A World which glorifies demonetization
is a World within the dominion of Hell
A World with such abidance towards Evil
may as well, itself, be Evil
but, ultimately, what is Evil
but knowing misuse of potential?
Energy is all that is.
Matter is but crystalline Energy
(and people say Science isn't mystical)
God, Tao, Zen, Allah, YHWH,
Brahman, Zeus, Jupiter, Ammon,
Mars, Ares, Týr, Horus, Kali, Mixcoatl,
Aphrodite, Athena, Venus, Minerva,
Isis, Ceres, Demeter, Freyr;
whatever you want to call
the ineffable Energies
is just fine by me,
but I maintain
the only Evil
is the intent
to misuse
that Cosmic Energy,
whence all was given rise,
and thereto all shall return,
for, truly, it never left
that Divine state;
that supple,
ephemeral,
dreamlike
Being-ness.
Hello.
Welcome back to Now:
Carpe diem.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
I could never finish writing off your name, with your strawberry scent vibrating towards mine and your hooded eyes that covers the wrinkles and your cheek dampens when you crook a smile, I could never stop writing you.
Maybe I was just drawing a thin line with heaven and a tightrope with my eyes close and hell bent towards the unending loophole of my forsaking fantasies, I guess I might stay here. There was something about you that I cannot forsake nor repaint with foreign colors and another texture — you were as a majestic being in my lucid dream.
That even though I cannot recount my fingers one or two or five or ten, I can picture the deepening hole of your dimples whenever you give the world another unbreathable cheeky beam and I sulk here, waiting for another neon glow of that majestic world in my dreamlike prophetic future.
Something told me it was you. As I bear witness another beauty in the realm of my alternative home, maybe then, peering at the sky while I was on a tightrope is worth every penny of sleep and drowsiness gulping another 90's wine.
May 10, 2022
May 10, 2022 at 5:29 AM UTC
Clear day—
Lavendar meadow stretches for miles.
Partly cloudy, no chance of rain.
The sun peaks out just enough
To light a field of golden grain.
I’m comfortable here,
In a summer dress,
Blanket on the ground,
Picnic set;
I look around,
And there you are,
Walking towards me
On this dreamlike day.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 12:34 AM UTC
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.
I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
the end of the street.
The sweet smell of cigar smoke. The ice cold splash of the garden hose. The pop of a bubble. The sting of soap in the eye. Dreams by The Cranberries. As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys. A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging. The deer in the backyard looking for corn. The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.
My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened. I cannot ask him.
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.
Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.
Covered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.
There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
I think I was before the trauma.
We are two different people. A yin and a yang. A day and a night.
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 2:46 AM UTC
For Robert Lowell
This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,
rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it's hard
to tell them from the stars--
planets, that is--the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,
or the pale green one. With a wind,
they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
but if it's still they steer between
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,
receding, dwindling, solemnly
and steadily forsaking us,
or, in the downdraft from a peak,
suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire
against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down. We saw the pair
of owls who nest there flying up
and up, their whirling black-and-white
stained bright pink underneath, until
they shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,
a glistening armadillo left the scene,
rose-flecked, head down, tail down,
and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!--a handful of intangible ash
with fixed, ignited eyes.
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!
O falling fire and piercing cry
and panic, and a weak mailed fist
clenched ignorant against the sky!
2.9k
My pulse is at 92 BPM.
But it doesn't matter,
I'm the only one who would care,
But I don't.
Not just about the pulse,
But about everything.
It's all a blur,
But not blurry enough to be dreamlike.
It's blurry enough to be sad,
But that's it.
It's blurry enough to see that I'm alone,
But clear enough that it's still sad.
Maybe I should get new glasses.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
There it was in the middle of nowhere
All grown up with wisteria vines
In the summer when the wisteria would bloom
It looked like a beautiful fairytale
Daffodils once grew beside the concrete porch
And azalea bushes too
Forsythia grew near the concrete walkway
It's yellow blooms I used to pick
In bouquets for my Mom in springtime
Two or three bushes bearing white flowers
Once grew beside the house too
Inside it looked Victorian
Even though it was built
In the 1940s or 1950s
How surreal and dreamlike
It did look inside and out
Even though when I saw it
It looked like repairs were a necessity
The floors needed to be torn down and replaced
The house was in dire need of electricity
And in want of being cleaned and organized
Bags of trash and other things
Needed to be sorted through
The house needed a new roof and ceiling
The ceiling and roof were falling through
Some of the floors were collapsing
Or they would crumble if you tried to put
Even one of your feet on one of the brittle floors
Yet that was my favorite home of all
And I miss you since you were torn down
Just last summer
It seems longer or shorter in some ways
In other ways it doesn't
Even though I never lived even a day
Inside of your comfortable hominess
My Mother and her sisters and parents did
My Dad courted her inside those very walls
Which were torn down just last summer
I wished I could have lived inside those walls
Replaced only what needed to be replaced
Keeping as much of you as I could
But you were destroyed
And I never had a chance
*Oh, how I miss you,
Dear little rustic country house
Which was like a home
And felt like home inside*
~Marian~
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
Dreamlike yet not dream,
desires like semblance gleam.
Eyes open senses asleep,
in customized world I creep.
Body here mind in seclusion
where reality is as real as illusion.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
Draw upon the breath of stars, and scorch my heart with fiery scars
Scars that linger from my past. A past that lies with lies and outcasts
Tied to fears of fearing flaws...insecure…. like never before.
Paradise, a sweet reprise to heartfelt sighs and moonlit nights
Starlit sheets and reddened cheeks, eye to eye and tightened thighs.
A face that takes my breath away.
A heart to steal my soul today.
A smile to stop the world from spinning
A laugh to make my head start swimming.
Disarmed, with you in my arms words lose all meaning.
Eyes pierce mine and landmine my mind
Lips seal mine and line my life with diamonds
Priceless and unbreakable diamonds.
A gemstone life.
Emerald eyes. Pearl skin, Morganite lips and flawless fingertips
Overdosed on what I want most, coming close to those and doting shows.
It shows through rose tinted sight and might just last if lasting lasts at last.
Dreamlike days and sleepless nights have shrouded my sight with blinding light
My eyesight has been gored.
Just one more day until my sight is restored.
By she who has been long adored.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
slight smile
knowing, yet intrigued
by the wonderfulness of life
that seems dreamlike to be real;
by the inkling of a poem
that’s like a baby refusing to leave its womb;
by the sparks that fly
at the thought of your lover.
just a slight smile
knowing, yet intrigued,
when billions of volts of electricity
transport the smiler
to a world that
exists
but not really.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 6:08 AM UTC
Your voice sounds like future music,
something that has not been thought up yet.
I can only imagine dreamlike tones,
it's true entertainment for the mind,
and I dreamt up your voice walking slowly for miles in my thoughts.
I picture your voice to be a symphony
of morning glory vines and violins
stinging me along, and this private
a concert is for my ears only, and I am playing
musical chairs on a runaway train of thoughts.
I tell you how words don't always need sound.
They find ways to cut corners and
I found a way to find you and you
stay uncut, well kept in a well Lit
corner of my thoughts.
Your voice is a lighthouse it is
luminescent when I am cocooned
in a dark corner standing on a
colorless ground fearing the butterflies
that cloud my Judgment, and make me
lose my train of thought.
Your strength teach me to sleep
peacefully with fire in my heart,
and smoke in my eyes, you feel to me like
Tuesday in an Indian summer, and warm
healing thoughts. In you, I found a safe house,
sweet nothings, and holiness in your blood.
When we speak in person
we will only speak in smiles,
and yours always reminds
me of an angel protecting my thoughts.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
In the lazy
late afternoon light
when everything seems dreamlike
she comes to me.
Smiling coyly she undoes a clasp,
her robe slips off the shoulder.
I watch the fabric water like
flow over her body.
Hanging on her *******
heavy with the ripeness of youth,
it pauses
then slips over her ***** brown *******
One bouncing, then the other.
Following her curves,
past the hollow of her navel...
exposing her crowning glory,
her woman's furry triangle
so warm and moist and welcoming.
Like an admiring hand,
the falling cloth
traces the wonderful curve of her ***
and down her long, smooth legs
to pool languidly at her feet.
She undoes her dark hair
shakes her head and lets it fall.
In all her glory she stands before me
eyeing me hungrily...
No seducer but prey am I.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
I'm staring into your eyes,
And I think out of all the guys,
You chose me.
And I'm staring at you while you sleep,
Sounding like some sort of creep,
But it's surreal.
This is dreamlike.
I feel like time goes a little slower with you,
I feel like life will never be over with you,
I ******* love what I feel when I see you.
I live for the emotion you make me feel,
I live for the oxytocin my brain starts to spill,
The chemical love drug in my head.
It makes me think of you late at night lyin' in bed.
It's times without you I'm starting to dread.
More and more.
Because I think I love you,
I'm all for you.
But I'm trying to work some things out in life.
And I'm certainly not trying to introduce you to the strife,
That makes up my everyday routine.
Girl you make me dream.
But in the grand scheme,
Will it really matter?
Because these words we trade may flatter,
But in the end what comes after?
Some departing words and some broken hearts?
I don't know if I can stand to go through that again.
I don't know if I can stand to go through it again.
I can't go to sleep runnin' this through my head.
I love you,
You make me toss and turn in my bed.
You make me have beautiful dreams in my bed.
You make me wish we could lay awake in my bed.
I think I love you...
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
sordid scripture,
warring woman,
both menace and coquettish innocence
—barricaded.
statues,
fountains,
and restraining orders,
filling the garden:
decorations of
sunlight on a clock,
and a view into tomorrow,
revealing the "texture" of her skin
within the realm of her navel,
as soft as lace,
as smooth as
the surface of a pond.
before diving in
gives an otherworldly radiance,
her shape and smile
compared to everyday realities
are solemn in the extreme,
the dawn threatens
to break in the east.
her voice,
(a lungfully deep, sensuous purr),
is so distinctive,
come what may,
this could be happiness:
sullen, waylaid and capricious,
her urban sexuality hidden
in the attic of revolution,
suffused with the dreamlike, hazy glow
of colored lights and tinsel.
desire is like Christmas
—it always promises
more than it delivers.
May 2, 2022
May 2, 2022 at 1:09 PM UTC
Once upon a time
There was a girl who dared to dream
In the cold, air conditioned room of reality she sat
For hours on end
Suddenly, her rescuer appeared
Golden yarns of sunshine leaked through the windows,
Wrapping themselves around her,
Pulling her away
In the blink of an eye
She was no longer in the place of gloom
But in a magnificent garden
Where flowers of every kind, like her,
Dared to bloom
She tarried there
For hours, days, weeks
Sitting amongst the blossoms
Admiring them and befriending
The other children who would arrive from their own prisons
Each backstory unique,
Some grotesque, some disheartening
But that mattered not
For the children would wrap their fingers
Around each other's cold hands
And begin again
In this new, dreamlike place
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
I reminisce quite often
of your touch
and
the unabashed ****** experimentation's
we've shared.
I know my worth,
so don't you go forgetting,
I had you with your mouth agape,
your toe's curling
as
you cried out my name...
call my conceit one of a kind,
because
I know the way you stare,
the way your eyes lustfully & licentiously devourer me,
the way you crave me
and
how you cling to the memories of us,
in bed.
Your priapic lust for me
is
equally accepted & measure,
almost to a point where
I could have bodily-combusted
since
you always seem unable to stop,
but
you must know,
I have a very arcane little list and lucky for you
I've let you in...
hahaha lucky indeed & better for me.
My concupiscence language
and
metaphors simplify & convey my lustful intent.
In simpler terms just know I want to repeat are coupling,
I'd like you to to bend me over and stretch me to my fullest.
open me widely
and
dance with in my silken Venus’ cradle,
entangle me into
a dreamlike haze,
in which my fantasy and reality are indistinguishable.
I know you've harboured about me & the many ways,
all the very excitingly different ways you could defile
and desecrate my ripe tight little body,
I see more clarity and certainty of what might happen,
if ever
I'd allow you to spend the night with me again,
I still remember our passionate nights together,
oh so very well,
I can see it,
I taste us and worst yet,
I can feel your animalistic
and
sometimes brutal ****** assault on me,
I still feel you deep within
my seductive tight little love box.
Your
a
cannibalistic-cunnalinguist master,
causing havoc within me,
as you attack hungrily
between my thighs,
sending me spinning,
sending me on a intoxicating high.
Our last encounter,
left me unable to breathe,
barely able to walk and yet I have no regrets,
well maybe just one,
and that is;
all good things must come to an end!
(until I heal.)
Always Me Ayeshah ™ ®
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Silence
This idleness is driving me insane
My life is in the hands of the pilots
As I wait in this plane
I'm weighed down by a fog like haze
As I drift through this cloud
My thoughts are trapped in a maze
And there's no way out
Suddenly I feel a strange sensation
I awake from the dreamlike state
My body is impatient
I can't stand to wait
There's something grabbing at my heart
Attracting me like a magnet
I want to jump into the dark
To satisfy the need for attachment
My soul leaves my body
I'm soaring through the sky
The raindrops wave to me
As I pass them by
I'm drawn to the feeling
Like a moth to a flame
My thirst for oneness is unyielding
As I take my aim
I see the peaks of mountains
And the raw power of rivers
I visit city fountains
But as I travel through the forest my soul quivers
You're there among the trees
The tugging on my being is stronger than ever
I come to you like a cool breeze
My soul meets your heart, we are finally together
I realize what love is
And I feel complete
But than everything changes
And I'm back in my seat
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
*The odor of blood drops in drapes,
figures half-lit form false shapes;
the bed on which I lie and the windows
welcome what the delicate line knows:
the open imagination's well-kept trade
that many shrug off
with a stilted stare or cough,
throwing discredit on what honest hands have made.
All that dreamlike inspiration
becomes a beautiful conflagration:
the smell of emblematic men and women slain,
and flickering lights from where thought's shadows came,
issue out of the creative heart's desire
that's uncontrollable,
requiring an artistic toll,
like the worn fingers of the bard that plays the lyre.
But that's what poetry's about,
a deep and draining silent shout;
the hand is left cramped and consumed,
the heart's violet blossoms begin to bloom:
sedative perfumes slide over your wearied frame –
half-memories abate,
the odorous dead dissipate –
you're deserted, yet the halcyon heart flares aflame.
Symbols come and symbols go:
the disfigured trees obscured by snow,
or simply standing against the wind
or windless heat; a cherished friend,
loved ones who’ve passed and the Lost Lyricist;
the Muse that eludes
the damp room in which it broods;
an image of stream near a stony tower’s twist.
Find here, dear reader and friend,
a testimony sung over again.
I write this text to release me from
broken thoughts and anger’s sum:
all that childhood and adolescence approved.
The unvoiced thoughts
of a boy caught by cast lots
inked to find something beyond evanescent truths.*
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC