Saturday, July 20, 2013

and the trees dance on and on . . .

I haven't been lost. . .
as I round the corner,
another year -
another day

I haven't been found,
but the blue of the sky
in the corners of my eyes
where a small tear
like a lake
full of life
passive and
still under the setting sun
a fire blooms
and rages silently . . .

I once dreamed
there were faces
in trees
and they danced with me
in the night as
they sang to me of death
and life
and death and life

and that it took a hundred thousand
for one small molecule of water
to pass from here to there . . .
I am the lost one . . .
I wander in circles
in a crowd of stars
where I am seeking
a field of flowers
over a hidden sea

into my heart;
the beats
irregular and
the blood drained
by the dark of the night . . .
there is a white moth
like an old movie,
the story of my life -
I am here
in the end,
the thread,
as a lacy wing
blooms before my face,
I was wrong
when I told the truth. . .

sweat drips from my eyes,
salty and sweet,
dark heart shaped splashes
sullenly evaporate
on this warm living soil
where a molecule of water
and dies again

(Written under melancholia on the eve of my birthday)

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