Yet another day 8
8
Deeds cringe at dark wood's end,
slither and die over leafy lips.
He hesitates,
although this particular crossing
is of no value.
Nevertheless, there are phantoms
attacking any conscious effort.
It is here he meets what is
with no lazy cloak of misrepresentation,
here, where hazy tell tale customs
cast anesthetized spells over shadows.
Never before has he been fraught
with a rendezvous of this kind,
binding all cracked second perception
into a sole moment of here.
There is no other touch.
Scavenging scholars of grey intent
bleed across pillared temples,
over crossbows and sugared lust,
dusty images of what might be
are purple words disarray,
an arrangement of flowers perhaps.
The element of understanding
has to do with keys and clouds,
a state of origin. Birthed mortals
need to breathe the wild.
Tall nights bear neither snow nor rain,
someone plays the piano.
Voices float like white clouds
over any possible objection.
"I do believe in the sound of words,
the spoken, the impossible,
the mad glimpses of belonging,
the electric flashes
between my bedroom poles,
the taut cerulean wood
where the moon is shifting."
The wind, the air he moves
as intentions move him
– highways and wasteland –
cannot be collected in jars.
Slow is his purpose
following maps of old.
Steeped in ways of imaginary wings,
he is intense, in bold leaps he jumps
over old lost lovers.
Poetry by Bob
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Written on 2011-10-07 at 15:41
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