Under a palm tree
I examine my seersucker soul
and try to figure
how it fits
in a hand-me-down world
My mind tries to peel off
the real people from
the dolls’ heads
They all seem so much
more pristine than me
more pristine than you
more pristine than they really are
Sometimes it feels like I live
in a jungle full of inebriated scavengers.
With my sad heart in my hand
I continue to venture into
a high-octane world
while my secret soul stands
like a leper hoping to heal in the sun
Chiseled in stone
on cement blocks
above the graves
are names and dates
that tell the timespan
of those below
but not the details
that made them who they were.
Even an epitaph
is only a taste
of the fruit of that life.
When generations pass
they will not know the stories,
the failures and the glories
but they’ll know those dates,
for sure,
chiseled in stone.
Quiet mice stepped on the world.
The world stepped on my transient hopes.
Transient hopes stepped on my brother's fears.
My brother’s fears stepped on your beauty.
Your beauty stepped on yesterday’s rain.
which had been slapped silly
by the mice and my hopes,
while my brother and his fears
cherished your wet beauty,
which wandered the world
in search of your mind.
No comments:
Post a Comment