Ashes of particles, light as the air I breathe.
Just a matter of human debris.
How could any of this rationale be anything but our own destiny?
For all we know, dreams that will got away.
And, no amount of substance will make them stay.
Windows we once believed to be clear as day?
Simply fixed particles, for an imaged display.
Basic explanations to love’s effort…that will go about…its own way.
I have tried to reason away the care you give me.
Offered up logical examples for our bliss.
Yet, there always remained a nonsensical skylight’s array to why WE exist.
I am not a poet…but I play one through my words.
Alas, all that I can come up with is
an absolute loving of a vagabond…
still strikes me of being a notion that is absurd.
What of these vows we make. Real or imagined. Spoken or, assumed. Promises behind cupped hands.
I still collect…broken things.
My vain attempt at avenging secrets I would rather not keep.
All whimsical obligations.
Random boughs on a trail to somewhere else.
Court ordered family lies.
Often seen in charming disguise.
Ironic, but away from the pledge, I never feared that I would not make it home.
Comfort came with words and song.
I am used to collecting used things.
Marred, scarred, dented.
I built with pride..this broken home.
My brother, my sister,
Outwardly able to live a lie.
Able to forgo…the why.
Still in the darkness of sleeplessness,
their anger cries.
The Formica traced a trail of ruddy tears…to an unnamed room.
Deep inside the tomb…
my oblique glasses held visions of dull switch blades.
Daggers dancing through the corners of my soul like,
bloody sugar canes sent to alleviate my decay.
Sliding between the ceramic maze…
a hell to be razed.
Alas, the vow,
little do your tiny demons know,
it was written long ago,
upon a wall made of cork…
‘straight jackets cannot subdue the heart.’
My Father used to say, peace be with you…
But it never was.
Holding a stark bare cross above the bedroom door…
I had been taught ‘this is love.’
Father would shake my hand until life caught hold
Eventually, in obsession, he became less bold.
My Father had sent me to deviant schools.
I had been taught of prejudice, good books, how to look for fools.