PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In the middle of it all, the ceiling recedes and the pain of the wind comes knocking on my window,

as if to trade punches with my yearning brain.

When you arrive,

you catch me and everything around me.

These habits are cut off from the world so to speak

and I remember it all when you recieve me.

Sounds of rolling carts and falling teeth are my only worry.

Eventually, my limbs are caught up in Vegas on a carousel at night.

And in my reclusiveness there remains, somewhere, my heroic action.

An epic plays out in my head where the world is against me,

and the swords are drawn, along with the blood and glory and screaming and predictability.

But only the victory is laid out in my hands because the embrace has already left us.

And when I stand out on the corner of this limited place,

I stare at a single photograph;

it's architecture crumbling in front of me,

falling right into place at the top of my foot.

The wind catches the pieces

and they recycle themselves in the air, around the buildings and the madness,

but only at half speed.

In a couple of years,

they'll reach the desrt doom and collide with the repitition of the sand.

They'll return as weaving glass and together we'll gather the wine that was left in the river

and drink.

We'll throw pebbles in that same river

and leave the ones who are crying beyond their eyes,

our questions and answers

and bring them home.

Like in these city lights where the reflection makes plenty of empty roads which carry our feet

that maneuver at shocking levels.

But our hearts are here

and our thinking is mundane.

And so to yearn for a heart that is limitless,

cosmic and that is anything but our own,

is normal.

And that normalcy

is the cause of all the fighting,

which lead to battles, which lead to war.  



That drastic turn can have noble beauty ahead of it,

but only if we allow our eyes to flat line and seize.

They are the corrupter of it all.

Throw them in a jar and let them float out in the sea,

allow them to follow the dysfunction of the lighthouse

which seems a safe harbor at first,

but really does not exist.

It only appears to stand firm

on the edge of the earth,

but as we look closer

we see it set on a trap that's meant to catch US instead.

All the wrong that we've done

is a stumbling block towards the land of milk and honey.

All the lessons we've learned are slowly beginning to unstitch until we finally reach clarity.



And she brings us home.

And she revitalizes us.

She's our mutilated safe haven, poorly lit,

but lit all the same.

Some say we've reduced ourselves

with our visions of hope worn on our sleeves.

And maybe these trees have suddenly uprooted.

Maybe the waves have turned into shallow, distant voices.  Maybe the kingdom of lions have caught on fire

and that the war is far from over.

But in the waking hour, all we've got is this.

In the rain or when its over.

It's not so bad once it hits your fingertips.

Our hearts become swollen and the rules are slowly broken

once we ask ourselves what we've done.  



When the dove becomes a dragon. A floating basket.  A screaming whistle.  A darkened mountain. A blessing. A curse. The hungry. The bold.