5:29 AM
don’t you want to live forever?
isn’t that what you fear the most?
bring tears to a dry eye and reveal
the new world -
climb to the hilltop
where the song of
Hellfire
rumbling,
chortling,
chokes;
revving engines for a race;
clambers
to make noise over
the defiant cricket;
a jogger passes with his confident stride,
and that early morning choir begins to
whisper it most familiar hymn.
the world lightens -
pay no mind to the mosquito at your ear;
droning,
churning
metal against metal.
this is how the world is born -
through a haze
of smoke
it brightens.
two birds fly overhead
heading left,
and where only they know?
or god?
or the wind?
this great city in a cloud
and this hilltop, littered -
i was here,
i have writ my name
amongst them!
a bone bit from the flesh,
a voice calling out!
circling cries of the gulls,
screaming at the earth
while the rest descend
on that which you have claimed -
the world brightens,
it spites,
it lives with the Dawn,
and with those who listen.
good morning to the immortal,
to the eternal.
how i missed the sweet songs
of that early morning choir,
carried on the warming winds
to rouse that which
Time
had taken to slumber.
messengers of the Great Star,
trumpeting the Dawn.
i know why the birds sing louder;
i know what it is to be young and in love,
not with another
but with whatever sweet moment
has taken me in its grip now.
the Child slumbers
she rests in that cool blue sea
and though the wind does not disturb her,
wisps of clouds smooth her furrowed brow
and the birds whisper a lullaby
as they swim past.
she dreams softly;
colors of magenta,
viridian green and peach,
cobalt and sapphire,
rubies.
she dreams of the birds
and of the clouds;
and of somewhere warm,
she conjures Zephyr’s breath.
a towering cumulus grows
and she dreams
of a glittering palace -
a memory.
a single tear falls then,
from the highest tower,
down to kiss her silken cheek.
the heavens send more kisses,
and then more;
a darkness spreading,
consuming all the while.
she tosses fretfully
as the thunder dares to wake her
with a clap,
screams at the lightning’s
great crack!
down she falls from the terrible height,
her kingdom turned to night.
7/21/23 - Midnight
i am sitting at the doorway
transfixed,
gazing at the
Blue -
addicted to the sight.
how can you not stare?
how do we so easily forget?
the Beauty
and Knowing;
perfect simplicity,
utter freedom.
quiet for a moment,
ecstacy -
heart pounding
in a soft embrace.
the eyes glaze
trying in vain to capture
the exact shade,
the texture,
knowing the memory
won’t keep -
just this feeling.
i’m coming back to the world now.
Fear sets in
like the night -
right at the realization you missed the light.
Eden
the smell of the air
reminds me of those days
as a Child.
those bare feet on warm concrete day;
those green,
blue,
yellow days;
when the wind was your mother,
caressing your skin and
brushing your hair.
the neighbors’ flowers never looked so good;
never resisting the temptation,
never considering it such
to gaze into each garden
and pull daisies,
and wild violets;
whispering wishes
to be carried on the backs
of dandelion fluff,
taken on the wind
to the ear of the
Midday Moon,
eagerly waiting to listen
from behind the wispy cirrus.
it smells like adrenaline;
of restlessness,
of forgetfulness,
of meaninglessness,
of calm.
those days when the sky was ours
but the dirt felt so good.
i am burning and
i am watching myself
burn.
i know not which came first,
the eyes or
the fire;
can either exist without the other?
when it rains in the city,
and on the wind is
the smell of warm earth
and cold pavement,
i will whisper a wish.
when it comes down hard,
drops pattering in syncopation
to thunderous applause,
i will dance in the shadow of the rolling clouds.
and when the lightning’s
beckoning beam
shatters in the earth,
i will grasp those
twisting vines
and climb
to meet the Moon
eye to eye.
when the cruel wind comes
and i steel myself
against it,
that lurking bird chokes
upon his laughter.
he circles -
the torment of Boreas
clings to my bones,
but his pain is easy
in measure to spiting
that wretch,
the carrion;
he who would gladly glut himself
upon my walking corpse,
though i’ll taste better
when i’m dead.
there has been a dead bird
on the steps to the train
for weeks now;
i have watched it rot,
watched it melt
in the heat of the summer.
the first day,
it was fat;
a dark pigeon,
beak to the sky and
wings spread for a
crucifixion.
then came the flies,
the hungry
glut themselves
upon his belly,
shit in his brain, and
bred next to his heart.
then came the rain,
which washed clean
the flies,
his feathers,
his sins.
a shame he could not
fill his dry throat
with the water;
a shame his dead eyes
should never see
the rolling clouds
and crack of lightning.
the wet made the rot take faster;
he blackened,
feathers oil slick.
his skin has all but melted
since last week,
chest open
and skeleton, black and wet,
exposed.
what will become of him
as the last remaining
feathers are plucked
and carried off by the wind?
how long has he left
’til someone,
upon notice of his corpse,
decides to clean
the spot where he lay?
will they bury him
or shall i watch him turn to dust?