Felt warmth at my back, and fell asleep
Thinking, in a moment of late, exhaustion-induced confusion, that it was you.
But sunlight, and morning
Broke the truth
It was only the cat, curled up at my back.
And you are still dead;
You are still dead.
Half full of water, lapping
Clogging up my breath
There is a tide inside me.
It’s drowning out my brain… how to breathe?
It’s filling me
Each breath, choking
Am I still asleep?
At most, my pain diminishes me
I feel small, I feel nothing
I feel the nothing pulling me in
I know its name, its harmonies well up
They pour out of my eyes and stain my life
At best, the pain underscores the why
Without agony there is no joy.
Why haven’t you come home yet?
Your pictures lie to me, the life in them misleading
I see your face and patiently wait for you to come bounding through the door.
But they lie, they lie;
You are gone, and no life will replace you.
Someday soon I’ll face my flames; I’ll
Sail the endless, salt-less waves; I’ll
Kill my shadow and hunt her kids; I’ll
Shiver in longing for places I miss; I’ll
Enter the rain-streaked hall where I died.
I’ll spit up the flood and weep out the fire
Each tear-drop a hurricane-blaze of desire
I’ll snarl at my tea-cup friends, singing their songs
I’ll roast up their curly-Q freedoms and toast
Every son-of-a-wanderer, filling their souls
With the cracked black asphalt-crumbles tickling my toes.
Someday soon I’ll drink my fire. I’ll
Let the roamers know I’m for hire. I’ll
Drink from the slate-granite stars, on the fly. I’ll
Let every bone swimming in my blood taste
I lose my breath for the ways we wept
Carving our chains from the sorrows we claim
I curse my hands as they build my plans
The coffin sized for me that I lovingly heed
Each step towards my death I shriek as I grin
I cannot stop mourning even as I descend
Why do we not cease all this clamor and doubt?
I know what will save me but I grieve anyhow
We built our own tomb-traps but we gild them and stay!
filling the rooms with silver decay
Floating our corpses in gold-blood and gloom
We’re certain this death will not be the last
We’ve died so many times in the past
Sometimes the greatest poetry…
Rage, silent storm;
Is the absence of any.
The quiet, heavy ladled
Only over the story..
You would tell, but refuse.
Respect me, or I will blow your memory like dust into the wind.
You do not deserve any acknowledgment from my breath.