to awaken, finally, from a long sleep
and see the dawn, at a
distance, rosy, the small green
plants forcing their way up between the
paving stones, obstinate and unyielding
then shake the ashes from your wings, a
sparrow, if not a phoenix, quick and
finely feathered, escaping that
series of cages, stairwells,
sinkholes
to soar, free of your fetters,
each journey starting but with one
step, hardest in the bleak morning
after the music has stopped, the
reverberation turned to a death
rattle, to turn away, then, and
the floor, still unsteady beneath your feet,
set your own course, being careful, of
course, to skirt the sun
lift off is the tricky part, the view from
the summit, though, is worth the wait,
greeted as an old friend, bereft of
you for so long, the light of
life in your eyes again
see the stars, strung out like
diamonds against the sky?
each one is a wish. make those wishes yours.
e-book "Metropolitan Diary" available on Amazon.com
15 October 2016
In Darkness
falling into the arms of sleep as
she once did yours, the cold clasp
of Morpheus quieting her feverish
thoughts until she hears that
click in her head that makes
all go still. The words stop.
the crack of ice floes in amber,
held in her hand, the blur of neon
across her eyes--she shakes her
bottles like castanets and
keeps time to the music--she
won't let you in--it is
all hers, winding, snakelike, sinuous,
around her brainpan, and the
needle-pricks spell out, in swollen
flesh, help me, help,
me
my mother, my father, the silver
spoon you gave me is blackened, flattened
with this disease of mine
that sickens me so, the
desire that plays along my heartstrings,
veins a conduit for rivers of
poison, this dark desire suffocating
every suffering moment
and still I shake my castanets,
count out the tablets like words
of love, yes, yes, yes, my little
my lovely ones, pale moons clattering away in your hollow music,
the sound ever receding
a finger points to the lines
written in the sky: I have
died a hundred times or more, it is
an art, like anything else; I
do it so well, with the thick
finality finally muffling my words,
closing off my mouth for all time
she once did yours, the cold clasp
of Morpheus quieting her feverish
thoughts until she hears that
click in her head that makes
all go still. The words stop.
the crack of ice floes in amber,
held in her hand, the blur of neon
across her eyes--she shakes her
bottles like castanets and
keeps time to the music--she
won't let you in--it is
all hers, winding, snakelike, sinuous,
around her brainpan, and the
needle-pricks spell out, in swollen
flesh, help me, help,
me
my mother, my father, the silver
spoon you gave me is blackened, flattened
with this disease of mine
that sickens me so, the
desire that plays along my heartstrings,
veins a conduit for rivers of
poison, this dark desire suffocating
every suffering moment
and still I shake my castanets,
count out the tablets like words
of love, yes, yes, yes, my little
my lovely ones, pale moons clattering away in your hollow music,
the sound ever receding
a finger points to the lines
written in the sky: I have
died a hundred times or more, it is
an art, like anything else; I
do it so well, with the thick
finality finally muffling my words,
closing off my mouth for all time
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