Monday, July 19, 2010

036: Dissolution of the unborn

From beyond ramparts of time
and columns of rue,
they sing and call to their mother,
echoes storming the firmament of bone,
their song to my pain, the words I never said,
winter flesh, siamese grief.
Beneath the roots of my castles,
their frail bodies linger,
bugs traced on a windshield,
bellowing deep, till I fall asleep,
build my temple of dreams
stone by stone, preciously,
a religion of images iced, sanctified.
My children, stretch your watery wings,
for the abyss knows your names
the way I never will.
I'd force the arms and stress the springs back
to return to the source, the starry womb,
for every word unsaid,
every glance unreached,
every line not crossed,
every name not written.
In golden sand, the imprint of your mother's face,
her unbearable beauty
still burns like an open wound.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

035: My only carriage

Tonight the asphalt seems to cushion my steps
as I'm trailed by a procession of bards,
weightless and smooth,
bearing fiddles like feathers,
poised for a touch.

Tonight my lagging limbs feel lighter,
animated to a thought,
a nimble leprechaun laughing crystalline,
carefree below observant chords
in the moonlight glaze.

Tonight I can hear firewood crackling
in my abode of loneliness;
and those present in faint corners mean no harm,
for we're still young, we still have time
and our song still glides above the waves.