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.
