Album: Blame & Aging
Sometimes I question my ability to write, think, act, or do.
Either way I just want to go back
to not thinking of you and moving on
like a breeze that lifts a leaf off its tree
But who’s this me?
This mess of bones and blood that just won’t stop knocking on
the door of misery,
just to act all frustrated when he answers.
Another poet party crasher, a mess of so much wasted breath and ugly mistakes.
Only a footprint left on the dirt of the world.
We all argue, “We’re trying our best!”
In which case, how pathetic
our greatest attempts must be against such trials,
indeed innumerable.
But maybe I’m looking at it the wrong way.
That this puzzle (if even a puzzle) is not meant to be solved,
but instead observed.
Like the fog driven ships from the docks or the autumn trees
as they undress in preparation for their slumber in icy beds.
And how their scarves and waistcoats bat about in the breeze…
All quiet now.
Silent, yet not seething,
at once simple and deceiving.
Because a reflection is a conception is not real,
a shadow of a puppet on the walls of the mind.
Take down the shade but don’t turn out the light.
Undress, undress for me and bare your body
so the light and the shadows may hit just right.
I wish to be contained in you
as we are contained and consumed in night.
I’m only a cord of wood waiting to be spent in the blossoming light
that crawls into the cool air cutting through a fevered haze