Directives Born Deep In

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Hip out, gait is locked

Stagger, stagger, throb

Throb, throb, stagger on

Tourniquets separated

Create apartheid tween

The numb and warm

…here flesh be tampered with

trod upon , with heels twisting, twisting

in turn, turning into, such a twisted halt

if where what was, only to at first regain balance,

they grind about still well after, after realizing it

is not the beach that they writhe upon…

The skin’s been known, to

Ever so slowly retract, explode,

As do the granulated bits expunged

From vase to sea…

Fine, fine fragments, found

Broken, templates blurred, then bound,

life lags, lingering long, across the tides and

through the ponds, where waves lament the flooding components of a time torn upon, spun, into a peril, unwound, unwrapped, by the crying wilderness that remains, untamed, to this day, a time untrained, to see beyond the passions of those emotions denying safe passage to and from,

With or without such directives that were to be, so directly implicated into what would be, a vision, THE vision,

and now, that vision is nothing more than a vision, one that has  destructed, distracted many more seamen far, far greater than thee, sailors with visions of their own, dreams, dreams that often rappel the journey’s leg up high, way beyond horizon’s sky, unto those lines, lines that coat the crags and corners of a soon to be, mountain-yet-to-be-scaled and flagged…and, and, and…it still climbs

Past the precipice one can’t peak

Through the tunnels sight can’t see

Within the quivering voice that cannot speak such languages purposely composed as being left intently incomplete as to where it’s words, are words made from sounds, sounds the tongue simply wont learn

And they swirl about,

Through each canal

Down the blockades path,

through the perimeters caged off

and bent.

Yet…. it’s all but noise

You cannot hear the voice

as it never truly says anything

Not until

This moment

Where the lock is picked

And the trellis falls

Leaving vines, vines, various and tall,

They are

Sprouting up

And shooting out

Where duets at dawn

Find the through and through, a down-ward arc, spiral in reverse, noticing the fortifications of a sun yet born, wherein fortifying all it’s every form

By, and with, its trademark limp

you are collected

along with your wavering will,

somewhat assertively, mind you,

Some days we make

Some days we are made

from model clay,

from collages painted

from a palette of images

you’ve been collecting

ever since you first departed the

weaving womb,

here the seamstress sews a carving breath,

ever birthing the unburied banalities

that somehow always freshen the scenes, the scent

that you

and you

alone

tend to

See…

A talisman

One To guide?

              If then, then I ask,

 to where?

Stop on over to D'Verse, where, like every Tuesday, Open Link Night takes over the poetic communities all over the world.  The doors open up at 3 pm, with the first poems being served up shortly after.  Every week is an adventure and a revelation, make sure you stop by and take all the poetry in.  See you there.