~Reaching~

Dreams are more
than crystal
clear,
writing
on the
wall--
some go
through life
without reaching
out;
you can't
keep on going
without
reaching out.
I seek you
eternally,
where you stumble
against
the gates;
or lie huddled
on the floor
listening to those songs
you forget
to remember,
searching
the harddrive
with your
ballpoint
for some longed-for
file,
the document
scripting
your soul--
but the
play
is fragmented,
burned
in those
old purges,
and you
vanish
before contact,
the standing
grave
stolen.
So beautiful
except when
you cry,
yet the tears
always stain
you,
ripping
black acid
scars down
that imperfect
face
no one
accepts,
they can't deny
you
forever
unless you ask;
sweet seraph voice
slaughtered
and strained
by your
choked throat,
closed
heart
and soul.
It makes me
want to laugh,
need to cry
when I sit
on the bench
you accidentally
bled on
and hear you,
how you talk
about the world
like it's someplace
you've really been
before--
something slaps
you in the face
but that isn't
life
like you think
it is;
no one who
hides like you
knows
what life
thinks it is.
Am I gone?
I know
you heard me
one day
because
you spat my
consolance
back in my face
despite
your cry for
help you
never really
voiced--
I wonder
what you're thinking
still
when you scrawl
empty
symbolism
on your arm
in blood again.
Have you gone?
It won't take long
to burn
you tell me,
but the matches
always make it
to your
fingertips
and miss
the gasoline,
so I sigh
in relief
when you stumble
against the gate
again--
maybe next
tomorrow
you'll try
reaching out;
maybe you'll
find
that I'm still
reaching out.


~~(c) 8/18/00 The Mad Poet (A.K.LaBelle)