|Thoughts at the Scene
Author: Dee Dub PM
Gone and gone again. I hang my empty ornaments.Rated: Fiction K - English - Words: 397 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 11-14-05 - id: 2048913
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
On faceless cobble stones, I walked abruptly
with on foot on each eye, to a service to all.
I do not blame you.
Is an artist embittered by his
I have descended as such,
like Persephone in a black hood,
but I wore red today,
because you said on me
it was distinctive, your eyes perched on me
and I recoiled
like guilty blood on mother's lab coat
and equally, you dissect me.
Your hands now limp but
the thought restricts
they were nervous and slyly prolific.
Oh, no I do not blame you.
Who do I blame other than saints,
with their weary precedents,
as if we have nothing to prove?
You are floundering in fancy
and you do not move an inch,
will they rot for this,
to have sallow, tentative awakenings?
Oh, you issue disarray
in discreet packaging. Minute words, subordinate brutality.
You are sorry.
I have lost nothing. There was nothing else to gain.
Only this vision solidifies the memory
in blue scales that will wait,
to rotate and shine, click concisely
unto an idyllic image.
As the skies strut and barge in on this, with their
crisp whiteness, falling like
Their vision proceeds as audacious shadows,
but their hearts have knowledge enough
to illustrate your shame. And my cold gestures stiffen
but do not erase, they cement,
the mythological mosaics. So
I withdraw and lay down the blossoms,
but still the fat phrases you encapsulated
escape your mouth, as your grave vibrates,
the flat, blank ground.
So, someday will you return.
Sludgy obsidian chiseled around my barren neck?
My son, drowned in a shallow bath?
Your soul will always be brief. Every dénouement,
skirmishes with rope burns and
overstatements. Trickle down your sweet, plucked back.
I suppose. find me a degree of neutrality
so I may conclude
the twinkling time span, from each shrill life,
where the gravity hums
of heavy meaning.
Oh, no I do not worry now.
Nothing painted is ever erased.
The weepy watercolors bleed into eternity.
The monotonous cramping,
maybe only we can long for lingering.
Part of the past, I exist
on several planes, but here my
shallowness is nothing,
I cannot accomodate the whiteness, the
Scavenger of soil,
learn your place, sequel child.