Saturday, June 30, 2012

Nostalgic pathos…



The Collapse of Romance

Will that I burn slowly
in the fountained fields of mercy,
while the fire creeps its travel
along the edges of my psyche.
Give the air around me
to the pyre ever-devouring,
so that the soil will never touch me:
So I speak, into the flowering.

In this pulse of ended story,
crows are patiently stalking.
Their sight is fixed on what I’m hearing.
Their taste is waiting for what’s coming.
I see the rotten, worn-out warnings
and I hear a different story,
of the light that keeps me going,
not the weakness of my mooring.

I still dream about a future
signified by pulling closer,
held by the small of your back
and the outline of your shoulders,
and I feel that breath inside me,
the spark I never let forget me.
I bide afire, burning slowly,
until the day you whisper to me
that the rain has come to claim me.


Are you faring on seas of tempest,
while the ocean shudders to pull you down;
are you grinding the finish away,
until there’s nothing left to drown?
Are you falling against yourself,
or are you falling straight down?
If you sow and cannot reap,
will you turn the harvest in on yourself?

Weakness and Fear

I shed beside the altar
all my worldly things,
and an other finds an opening
to tie itself to me.

Lift and Break

I am the wanderer,
bound to burning effigies,
pupils wide in anger,
straining from a winter.
Stretched thin for elegies,
strings smoldering; a lesion.
A lesson for belief,
my skin is leathered myth:
The shining proxy, crumbling.
Statues of weltered sin.

I can’t reach the width
required to douse myself.
Silent fires are burning;
raging storms, unyielding.
And I am silent,
for I am a silence.


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