"moats" poems
The Red Ants At His Picnic
Her pillow eyes gleamed
at his advances,
inching along slowly.
His anteater likeness,
rising,
coming to an anthem,
frolicking on her picnic,
on her mound,
hoarse and hungrily.
Rendevous antics to form.
Wave after wave,
the red ants at his picnic,
dancing,
dancing like there's no tomorrow,
seducing him in further.
He,
so antsy,
anticipating.
In his genre,
happily along,
on her trail,
like a hunter,
taking her welcoming little red colony,
to kingdom
come.
To ******* come,
where her castle and moats succumb,
relenting,
saluting to his anthem.
Where soon white clouds a bursting,
blue skies emerging.
The sublimity and antidote holding on,
holding on to her picnic.
And the rocket's did red glare,
the bombs bursting in air-
together,
to gather.
And there they were ... chaos, abuzz,
lyrical
then calm.
Sustenance drawn on their faces.
A slight breeze runs through the grass
the red ants at bay.
Logan Robertson
4/17/2018
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
What a city I murmur to myself looking at its map.
We approached the city known as Dis,
with its vast army and its burdened citizens.
At last we reached the moats
dug deep around the dismal city.
What destroys the poetry of a city?
Automobiles destroy it,
and they destroy more than the poetry.
Dante and Virgil chased by 7 or 8 dangerous devils
Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, ***** . . .
Our heroes reduced from metaphysical philosophers
interested in god and what man has done to man
to improvising primitive tools for survival.
Hope abandoned, we rate our chances of expiring
in the nuclear fire – excellent –
during the decline of western civilization.
On the other hand, I hope
our current problems are only temporary
and it’s just a matter of time before
the public ignores the 24-hour news cycle.
Bad news sells but the good life’s all around us.
One feels love and devotion
even for the 60 million who voted for our opponent.
Vaclav Havel said with a wisdom well beyond brilliance:
“Either we have hope within us or we don’t.
It is a dimension of the soul, and it’s not dependent
on some particular observation of the world or estimate of the situation.
It is an orientation of the spirit, an orientation of the heart
that transcends the world as it’s immediately experienced.
It is not the conviction that something will turn out well,
but the certainty that something makes sense
no matter how it turns out.”
It resembles grief. But it's not quite grief. I'll give you grief.
Certain days planned to be eventful I look forward to for weeks.
Let the peaceful transfer of power proceed. The sorrow and the pity.
Never may the anarchic man find rest at my hearth.
When the laws are kept, how proudly the city stands!
When the laws are broken, what of the city then?
We are moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history has been abolished, and a City of History,
where hope can be slipped in only as contraband.
Failing to achieve understanding, we're searching
outer space for an entity to unite us as humanity.
That person, or city, is consciousness.
Two ancient female poets are a revelation,
the clarity of their complaints: lost lover, lost city.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.
Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gale outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.
The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.
Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.
Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.
Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.
The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal
sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.
Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean.
And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers.
Danger is to pace a hole in the floor.
Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore
like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.
So I try not to stand when I write.
I keep a narrow tack
without too many big words
which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground
–moats to keep others out–
or make you think they think big.
But anyone who reads knows about Icarus
and anyone with aims must beware:
to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head
when like fate the arrow
returns to source.
You’re only as good as your mind,
your characters only as strong as you are.
—at least, this is true in so far as you know.
True in so far as they speak.
For to test them you must torque them
and twist at their cores,
and make opposing forces meet–
but only
as hard as you can.
This makes writing a hill slick with oil.
Insecure. Potential energy.
Potential failure
seated
in all of that grime
that cakes your toes like grease that coats
the teeth of great industrial gears.
So I try not to stand when I write.
But whether the better take comes when you plunge
and you slide and dissolve like so much ice,
I must say I don’t know,
the thought
seems nice.
But the same
It seems like those who let go
Are the ones
with the least to say.
I can't decide
either which way.
All I know about writing is
most sentences are punctuated wrongly.
The period is certain,
but writing is undecided.
It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop
that moves with all its own fanfare.
Question marks curl up—
invisible smoke on a summer coal fire:
heat twisting the air like irons in stoke
giving sign of the transformations there withheld.
For fire mediates matter,
so writing stands ever-between.
But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean.
And so I fold like there’s danger in writing,
while danger is imagined like borders on a continent.
Danger is thinking
I'm dangerous enough to keep silent.
Like shallow waves,
given way to sand.
So avoid letting voids form
where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths.
Writing is –at best– an attempt.
Even with shallow structures
in rhythmic din,
the silent breaks by force of pen,
and all because of the simple fact
that quiet refuses to bend.
All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns
while I try not to stand.
But you ask about writing?
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
an ancient lyric, come to haunt,
no longer a shield, now thinner,
of gossamer consistency,
a tissue-thin papyrus,
“my poetry to protect me”
the poem words always were
a clarinet reed, capable of singing,
a highest pitch voice for turning
blades of clean steel clean away,
now blunting paper bunting, penetrated.
re-formed my shield, re-purposed,
into a stabbing instrument offensive,
my poetry pricking tearings in my worn
thin fabric tapestry, woven from linen
excuses of why I can’t, why couldn’t I.
this is life. moats becoming drowning
pools, castle walls reversed to entrapments,
wrecking machines, boulders hurling,
medieval defenseless against modern rhymes
giving away to free verse horde onslaught.
too late to apologize to myself, alas, my words,
my protectorate, island redoubt, now ruined
by doubts treachery breech birthed from within,
these verses hollow point bullets engineered,
Caesar’s words clarified, you, et tu, are Brutus
too, two, for the price of one, betrayer and betrayed.
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 5:44 PM UTC
I fashioned myself a dress of black lace;
Dark and elegant, epitome of grace;
Soft on my skin, caress like a lover's,
My comfort, my design, a haven of covers.
They called it macabre - filled them with unease;
Dangerous, they said, termed it a disease.
And yes, I'm unwell, but darkness is my veil -
A reprieve from hell, solace without fail.
I am the tailor, the sculptor of shadows,
The reaper of melancholy my art sows.
And yes, it is odd, fragile, morose -
The marble thorns of an obsidian rose.
The judging whispers that follow in my wake,
Can't comprehend I do this for my sake:
The sharp edges they call jarring and cold -
They are my palace, impenetrable stronghold.
Where others see emptiness, I notice lace,
The gossamer threads of a misty embrace;
They are but blind to the kingdom of nothing,
Only see moats, and wall canons jutting.
My castle of ghosts, the court I control,
Those remain hidden, deep in my soul.
The siren song, my foggy lullaby,
The velvety clouds on which my thoughts lie.
It is morphium, made in my mind
Embroidered dullness only I can find.
The words bounce off my protective bubble,
Your bombs shatter into a gray rubble.
I blow it away, along with my fears,
I got good at this, during the years.
Give me some credit, I am no fool,
Where others would drown, I can rule;
I know not to freeze, when water's too cool,
The fire you'd burn in, I use as fuel.
Yes, it's a thin line, I know it best,
But I'm a trapeze-artist, can pass the test;
A veteran of trade, the air is my nest,
I've learned to live without getting rest.
And I know my limits, how far I can press,
Worry you not, I've survived on much less.
I'm not glass, disperse your concerns,
If need be, the lace to razor wire turns.
Sep 20, 2020
Sep 20, 2020 at 6:16 AM UTC
It was a hot summer night
Nearly ninety, I'd say
When out back of Giovannis
The Bluesman sat down to play
He pulled up his crate
Took a sip from his flask
"This here's my med-cin"
"In case someone happens to ask"
He started a story
That we'd never heard
We're the folks of the street
And we followed each word
It's a tale of James Withers
A man in need of a hand
But to us on the street
He was the Sand Castle Man
The bluesman strummed gently
He didn't want the words to be lost
For this was a story
That had a hell of a cost
You see, James the sand man
Lost a life to the sea
His grandson, young James
Drowned when he was just three
Each day James went down
With his grandson in tow
They'd make castles together
Some fast and some slow
One day the pair
Were at the end of the pier
When a rogue wave hit hard
And took what James held most dear
His grandson...swept out
Lost at sea, never found
They searched for three weeks
But the poor boy was drowned
James kept a vigil
Every day on the beach
He'd look out on the water
His heart out of reach
He kept making sand castles
As he did with young James
With shells and old driftwood
And he gave them all names
He'd have non-existent armies
Fight non existent wars
In his hard packed sand castles
He carved windows and doors
There was make believe dragons
In pools by the sea
Guarding make believe princesses
Who no one could see
There were turrets and moats
And each day he'd build one
To be lost to the tide
As the days work was done
Each day a new castle
Each day a new war
But, nobody knew
What he was building them for
The tide would come in
And would sweep it away
All that hard work
Gone at the end of the day
But, each morning he'd come
Build one more for the tide
With invisible armies
To flow away for a ride
People would watch him
Make the castles of sand
With imaginary soldiers
In imaginary lands
The bluesman sang soft
Took a sip once again
From the flask on his hip
It's just medi-cin
The crowd didn't stir
We were like moths to the flame
As we heard the bluesman
finish his tale about James
I asked him one morning
If he ever would end
Building castles of sand
He said, Bluesman, my friend
I know that each castle
Will be washed out to see
And I hope that my grandson
Gets a message from me
I make each sand castle
Like we both used to do
I come back every day
And start another anew
It helps with the closure
I send my soul to the sea
And I hope that my grandson
Knows they're for him made by me
He finished and thanked us
And we went on our way
All of us changed some
From what the bluesman did play
Next time I'm out wandering
And see the castles of sand
I'll know what he's building
Now...that I understand
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
If you close your eyes
Inside your mind
You'll capture your prize
No telling what you’ll find.
There is a magical land
Just waiting to be explored
Available on demand
A guarantee you wont be bored.
Maybe inside your dreams
There are castles and moats
Strawberries and creams
Yachts and sailing boats.
Caves with orchestras to observe
Listen and relax and drift away.
Maybe a beautiful nature reserve
To watch lion cubs at play.
Maybe there are chocolate waterfalls
And the rocks are made of fudge
A tree where a kingfisher calls
Or where nobody can criticise or judge.
In your mind are flowers made of silk
And last forever and ever
The cows produce flavoured milk
Cold with ice for whoever and whenever.
You can visit these things any time
Just close your eyes and you are there
No rivers to cross, no hills to climb
No parking ticket required, no taxi fare.
It is a free service, provided just for you
Just close your eyes, enjoy what you see
See your fields of green, your skies of blue
Your rivers of chocolate and a butterfly tree.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 3:03 AM UTC
1609
Sunset that screens, reveals—
Enhancing what we see
By menaces of Amethyst
And Moats of Mystery.
2.5k
Beauty meant power
The princess has a King, who lead wars and conquered kingdoms, wrapped around her fingers
A prince, who slay mighty dragons and beasts, fall onto her feet
So when did beauty become a weakness?
Beauty meant safe
Moats and towers kept her from plain sight
Dwarfs and talking animals always run for her defense
So when did beauty become a threat?
When Beauty touches unholy ground
The dead goes up their graves
At the scent of beauty, not of brain
The darkness hid their rotten flesh
Her naivety masked their stench
Because in her eyes, they’re all the same
For they call her “Beauty”.
Their ***** nails dug to her flawless cheek
Making scars that could never heal
The lips that once called her “Beauty” burned like coals on her flesh
They grip her hair and drag her around, leaving a trail of virgin’s blood
As the moon become hidden by clouds
The dead just left her on the ground
She screamed for help yet no one came
Because her face just wasn’t the same
For every rustling of the trees
And every blow of the wind
The fear inside her grew
That the dead will be back
But as the days passed by
They never did
Because she was no longer “Beauty”
And she was no longer wanted
She had no power
She was weak
She was unarmed
But she was no longer beautiful
She was safe
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
I fell in love
with a sandcastle
and when the tide came
and washed you away
I let my body drift out to sea
prayed I would disintegrate
piece by piece, particle by particle
with yours
but I'm not like you
made of sand
my moats were useless
against waves
have you ever tried to capture a wave inside of a bucket?
that's what it was like
to love her
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 5:50 PM UTC
Was this not what you wanted?
A sliver of hope--
Instead you ended by shivering out on that unsteady-tipping slope.
And for all those somethings, I hadn't know,
well, I had to let them go.
Now I am, all alone.
But hey, it's not like you would've know--
Too lost to see through your own moats murky waters.
Was it One; Two; or Three;
Captured sirens swimming with you,
within your clouded judgement?
Or is it, One; Two; or Three;
Vile hags trampling with you,
within your undeserving life.
Are you feeling empty yet?
Or are you full of your lies?
It appeared to be a feast--
While in harsh reality, you were plucking at nothing...
Nothing except brittle bones.
Its all a shame,
for it was a dream spun upon spindle--
Lost in a cowards looping slope.
Was this not what you wanted?
Hmm-
What a shame...
What a shame...
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
Once there was a president,
Cold and heartless, who set about
Finding ways to make his country
Great by keeping migrants out.
"We'll place soldiers along our southern
Border," said the nation's boss.
"That way we can easily stop
Migrants from making their way across.
"And if the migrants become unruly,
The soldiers can shoot them, one by one."
Advisers turned to the president
And said, "No, sir, that can't be done."
"Then let the soldiers shoot the migrants
Low, low, in the ankles or thighs.
We will see the unwelcome
Migrants start to drop like flies."
Advisers looked at their boss and said,
"Sir, that's also out of the question."
The president, getting angry now,
Said, "Then here's another suggestion:
"We will build a moat along
Our border wall and fill that moat
With alligators and venomous snakes."
That idea made him gloat.
"And then we'll add spikes to the wall--
Spikes that can penetrate human flesh.
Find me the cost for all of this,
Or else we'll have to start afresh."
Suddenly, he said, "I know:
We'll just change asylum laws
And separate the families.
That should give the migrants pause."
Hard, hard the administration
Worked together to find a plan,
Using words like "riff-raff," "invaders,"
"Dangerous threats," and "caravan."
The whole world watched in horror,
Lamenting how democracy fails
When an unfit elected leader
Goes completely off the rails.
-by Bob B (10-4-19)
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Allow me to show myself to you
Before you paint a picture of me without a reference
Let me show you what beauty looks like
Below the surface of the skin
I’ll show you the flowers in my mind
They’re so vibrant you’ll think it’s magic
If you tried to recreate them, you’d never be able to find a shade that matches just right
Some of these flowers might be wilted, but they’re still growing
I try to be like them
I’ll walk with you
Down the spiraling staircase, from the garden of my mind
We’ll walk among bookcases filled with my thoughts
In a giant library of ideas
My mind is a castle
With thick walls
And moats deeper than your imagination
The drawbridge is almost always closed
If you see it open, you know that’s one of the good days
My castle is built of similes and metaphors so strong
They could shatter a window better than any rock ever could
I use diction as bricks
I built this castle myself out of literary devices and pure magic
My hypothetical brain castle is full of more secrets than you might think
There are trap doors down every hallway
Hidden rooms full of memories i like to keep to myself
My castle has a dungeon
I like to lock away the things I don’t want to think about
There are doors that don’t open, in my castle
Keys i lost a long time ago
When i lose another key, it’s called “forgetting”
Usually I don’t even notice
There are vines creeping up the side of my castle
Things that shouldn’t be there, but they won’t go away
Later, you’ll realize they made it more beautiful
Sometimes, I mistake the castle for a prison
I forget that these walls are meant to protect me, not keep me sealed away
My castle looks more like a cell, than a home
I feel lost among in my library of ideas
The books full of my thoughts seem to be written in a language i do not recognize
I fall down trap doors i forget are there, and i mistake the flowers as weeds
My castle looks more like a cell, than a home
And all I want is to escape my own mind
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
That flesh’d vizard – does it decay,
So much alike the ******
My mortal stature – emaciated –
Forthwith; it’s programmed.
Do those lines – like trenches deep –
Carve moats for tears to flow.
And do they flow – like rivers march
My countenance; fallowed.
To rejuvenate – vials and vials,
Ointments in plethora.
I rub and rub, till the vizard cracks
Lo! Restore my aura.
Pseudoscience, falsehoods galore –
A vice of fiscality.
Like a cyst, does it tremor,
Melting my vanity.
Visage – deep – a pick inside my soul.
Those flakes of ego crumb.
A mien so ****** yet so loved…
Can they not see how numb
I am.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 8:23 AM UTC
Mind is an island.
Setting sail on conceptual ships with charts of stars and atlases
only limited by imagination.
We look to the sea and our reflection shows in calm or turbulent waters.
Waves of wonder crest and pause
in the moment when the sea sees it’s reflection in us.
Peering out at the horizon
pondering ways to reach the other islands.
Feelings bloom into language used as planks in our ships.
Taking magic and turning it into science.
Growing into a symetrist seeking balance.
Trying to stay afloat in a jolly boat
to breach interpersonal moats.
But a parched heart wants to get wet.
Eyes turn from where the sun sets
and into the self.
Unflinching, I abandon ship.
Care for a swim?
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
Allow me to show myself to you
Before you paint a picture of me without a reference
Let me show you what beauty looks like
Below the surface of the skin
I’ll show you the flowers in my mind
They’re so vibrant you’ll think it’s magic
If you tried to recreate them, you’d never be able to find a shade that matches just right
Some of these flowers might be wilted, but they’re still growing
I try to be like them
I’ll walk with you
Down the spiraling staircase, from the garden of my mind
We’ll walk among bookcases filled with my thoughts
In a giant library of ideas
My mind is a castle
With thick walls
And moats deeper than your imagination
The drawbridge is almost always closed
If you see it open, you know that’s one of the good days
My castle is built of similes and metaphors so strong
They could shatter a window better than any rock ever could
I use diction as bricks
I built this castle myself out of literary devices and pure magic
My hypothetical brain castle is full of more secrets than you might think
There are trap doors down every hallway
Hidden rooms full of memories i like to keep to myself
My castle has a dungeon
I like to lock away the things I don’t want to think about
There are doors that don’t open, in my castle
Keys i lost a long time ago
When i lose another key, it’s called “forgetting”
Usually I don’t even notice
There are vines creeping up the side of my castle
Things that shouldn’t be there, but they won’t go away
Later, you’ll realize they made it more beautiful
Sometimes, I mistake the castle for a prison
I forget that these walls are meant to protect me, not keep me sealed away
My castle looks more like a cell, than a home
I feel lost among in my library of ideas
The books full of my thoughts seem to be written in a language i do not recognize
I fall down trap doors i forget are there, and i mistake the flowers as weeds
My castle looks more like a cell, than a home
And all I want is to escape my own mind
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC
Depth beyond
edges of the
Universe
Core of light
demure yet
it gently
illuminates
fabric folds,
blows away
the dust moats
surround my
tapestry
rippled though
time because you
added a
beautiful
stitch.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
I build sandcastles in my mind.
I've done it since a child.
As the dark thoughts they do run wild.
In my mind I build.
An architect I am for it makes me feel fulfilled.
These constructions I create.
In a world filled with hate.
They distract me from the norm.
And help me through life's storm.
In the dentists chair I lie.
Building in my minds eye.
For the bus I sit and wait.
To build I do not hesitate.
I go to a place where nobody knows.
On a sunny beach the warm wind blows.
Ruffles my hair, takes away my despair.
I hear gulls call as I construct these walls.
The tide never changes, hence they never fall.
Made of sand they are, and they're in my mind so far.
Fortresses with moats, where I can float a tiny boat.
All my worries fade away as I shape my hope.
Any tricky situation or when I lose my motivation.
I'm back beside the sound once more, of the crashing ocean.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
& the salts just keep on spreading--
between Palestine & Israel,
millennium of a-saults burn in their hell--
collectively bringing bodies down
as a salty sacrifice screeches venom out
into the air,
& acidic sleepy nightmare scarring the earth dry.
& the salts just keep on spreading--
& the salts just keep on spreading--
what hope do we have as
you keep building your salt walls
--it's like a middle finger clawing a scab.
keep shaking hands with cheese graters
slicing papers of ancient seas scrolls
where knowledge could be foretold
of love and peace young and old--
but the salts just keep on spreading--
but the salts just keep on spreading--
all over the world into already perfect countries--
dividing a world into your words
like a dead fish floating in your sea--
wrapped in parchment to be served
as a poisonous choice for dinner of all our minds.
makes us feel like we're walking on a landmine field,
points jagged piercing unyielding fear shrapnel in our brains.
but the salts just keep on spreading--
but the salts just keep on spreading--
and we wonder why our lands keep drying out.
putrid, salty sour milk words
burn the back of our throat
yet we hope to find water --
we hope the moats of these salty
words protect us.
but what happens when the water dries up?
the salts just keep on spreading--
the salts just keep on spreading--
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
You once lay with me under a blanket of sun
and held me in your hands. The texture of my
fine debris slipping through the crevices of
your fingers and toes.
You built me a kingdom by the seashore:
castles with towers for guards to keep watch
and dried up moats surrounding the landscape
of a desert.
Sea armies of adolescents would attempt to
conquer my walls but crustaceans armed with
a pair of Archimede’s claws would defend my
kingdom from such intruders.
But as the suns bulb became dim and burnt
out, the great big blue took over covering me
inch by great inch. My towers began to crumble
down, depleting all of my army and all of my castles.
You left me here for the ocean to take, but a little
piece of me snuck its way into your bag, towels,
hair, and shoes. And just like the ocean, you will
eventually wash me away as well.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 11:19 AM UTC
This letter was not meant for you
it was meant for me with you
to that crystalline time when we were two
before the shattering was through.
The mornings in
when we lay oblivious to the shuffle and the city din
when the weight of the world was still
not enough to budge us a single inch
from between the linens.
So I recollect
all the fragments I thought I left
I'm not one to dwell but what else
is left for the lonely boy at the bottom of a well?
But now there are three
There's you and there's me
and there's who we could've been
And I've not spoken to him yet
as I'm not sure this specter is real
Or maybe I'm afraid to ask if he once half-lived,
was he thrown from the wheel
and tossed down the well here with you and them?
But I've fooled myself again
What I saw as a window
was only a mirror that needed mending
And what I heard as your voice
was always the wind
hurling back at me my own laments.
Beauty brutally murdered my captain
One touch, and the crew deserted
a hasty mutiny to an unknown island
Where I before with calm weathered
the waves, now the torrent upends
the bow, wrecked upon rocks
that could've been havens.
So I'm thrown from the sea to the sands
Left alive by a wiser hand than
I, doomed to make beach castles, just a man
mending the grains, seeing the slate
wiped clean again and again
forever banned from the mountain
and the densely wooded lands.
One day I'll abandon my post
cut short my careful tending
and set off from the coast
Leave behind the crooked lines
and SOS signs, the feeble moats
Face the interior, each step deep down
and further down into the jungle dark
and every fear the most
Hope beyond all Hope that all I own is Hope
and one day reach the sun, then I'll know.
And what keeps me shuffling through the dark?
The thought of you shuffling too
alone and apart
Not the thought that our end
will be as our start
but that the art
of the whole **** thing
is all we are.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
You see, I have this habit
Of building bridges
When I should be making moats
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 12:35 AM UTC