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
