Next to the dirt road yawning. The autumn grasses of a poet’s dream. A beauty that is beyond the frozen spears and dark skies. A dress up gown extends the touch, and a million hues gleam. Yellow -speckled limbs, and lips to crown the mist of daybreak. Can you take me there?
Oh, stagnant beauty sun-burnt at birth. Eyes shining like jewels. Yet, you still do not dream. This is reality. Plum blossoms of the soul, turned to thorns in wombs. And still, your lithe body keeps the silence.
From the trees I walk under, autumn breathes laughter. Blowing away the bleeding sun, and sunflower choir. And once again, raining from tall skies. Naked stars dive headfirst into the steadfast river. Laughing seamlessly, as if it was all our yesterdays. With blue ice shining, and spirits filled.
The deaths I suffered, began in my soul. And in the interchange. Between the glint of waves, and the worms in the mouth. The most that can be said, is that my passion for love, is no less.
You refuse your darkness, and your peeling books. Everything is simplified, so each word sounds final. A perfect telegram to Buddha. But in this desolate sky, my star is seen – next to the steadfast sun. Who tells me of requited love at twenty, and passion in the fifties. Wrapped in honesty that knows no tempering.
A cold wind greets me at the door. Outside bare branches whip the streets. A world of one colour. But listen to the wind. A mockingbird sings, an island song. I smile, at the sight of her breath. And my world turns warm again.
How fleeting truth is. Lying dead, along with broken campaign signs. Deep in shaggy grass. With each retelling of the story, it ain’t worth much look. Cicadas’ sing an anthology of blossoming lies. And the crows avoid eye contact But grey feathers remain, caught in the stadium lights. Sick of life, I call it sick.
A Wandering Poet 