I Killed Orpheus

It’s not my fault

I’ve heard from others that your words speak

I’ve been informed your music addicts the soul

Yet, still, I cannot hear or feel

An extraneous birth I’ve bled

A foreign substance beneath the tongue

Subcutaneous- bludgeoned within

Orpheus, did you find your bride?

I’m sorry, from my hands your heart did stop

My mind is an athenaeum

Comprehensive, vast

Hollowed are my thoughts of you

For each hand etched syllabic impression-

For the beautification flowering from your song-

Circumvent me- an incomplete wager yet anted toward

Vacuous void, a void to see

I’ve reserved a space- a lee- to rest your stoned-in-tomb

Observatorial

I am not an observation

         I’m not a situation

I’ve at times been a casualty

         But never the root of causality

I am not some speck of data dots

Splattered on a page, the type

You’d find deconstructed upon a grid

I’m not some analysis

A psychiatrist so easily can gave

I’m not a problem

         Nor am I a solution

To which some might say

         Makes me a problem in a different way

I’m not some report

         With facts and figures

Presented to groups

         Or read by only one

I’m not some grade

         Used to measure

Indicating possibility

         And that dreadful word potential

I’m not an observation

         So easily dismissed

I’m not an observation

         So casually missed

I’m not an observation

I’m but a speck

A dot with no ends

A sum of all points, the point of a pen

A pattern, a trend if you choose to look, if you so desire to skew or to bend, finding one: a reflection, a stream, a light, a bulb, a token or a reassuring nod of approval, is not as difficult as you might pretend.

Not that it’s correct, not that it’s right

But if you simply look, you’ll never see; you’ll never comprehend what is awakened and what still sleeps.