PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Finally

I slipped free from the 

vanity of day

and landed here:

another clean-carved horizon,

another apparition of moon,

another chiseled scowl

steaming through a falling sky

where it all begins 

and ends,

and She's not giving up the secrets,

not for a handful of glowing dust

creaking down,

and certainly not for me,

little seeker, twisting

in questions,

only knowing there

is this . . . 

and a body we never owned,

but certainly owns us—

lured us into believing it was

the killer of dreams

and lord of our nightmares:

fragile, seductive prison.

So we play along while light

presses against the windows of

of our raging: Let me in! 

We rarely do. 

I have a friend who is dying and I don't

know if I should say goodbye and pretend that

it's a serious thing to slip out of an iron suit

we imagine is all our grief and majesty,

ambition and stunning tragedy—

Yes, the dream wore sequins

and a paper crown. Quite the

trickster, this Game:

Look, over here, no, here and here,

see this sorrow,

believe this ending

before you wake up and say: 

So that was it? 

Under a spray of burning poems,

I take down your volume of 

prehistoric heroes and

villains with beautiful names, 

and think of how you will 

try to finish their stories.

A laughing immortal in on the joke.

A vessel of secrets.

A body of light.

Patricia Joan Jones