“In my lifetime, I’m still not right.”
the Indigo Girls
Frail as an, azure manicure…He simply said to me,
“that is what we have left for you.
In such a youthful state…your only tranquility will be a savored, small room set in the mind.”
I could scarcely understand such a, scarred, singed, sage.
No matter the matrimony.
No matter the saint.
No longer…young at middle age.
His terse, flawed quotes…were far from quaint.
Until a debris of wants.
My hoarders bin filled the tapestry in the sacred room.
Cluttering my soul!
A bee swarm!
Being flawed and broken, I held the four walls up to my looking glass.
Plastic abrasions filled my whole.
Among the lonely space…
dreams of nylon insurrection paid for with youthful…tainted cash.
Had it been any somber inclination…
More mist would fall.
Yet, the impoverished ground…
Began it transcendence to hell.
Long before only one wish fell down the stoned well.
Tell me one last time of love.
Tell me one last spoken verse…
Of what you had intended to do.
How red had been traded for blue.
When endless days encompassed in velvet touches of all that is new.
Fell victim to guile…
And, burning house residue.
Pine board days of Revelations, Kings and Saints.
Philosophers of manikin’s, in modern ways.
Bring back Woolworth times.
Dime store family albums caressed in similar minds.
All Polaroids shrouded in a love unkind.
I want you back.
As I sip a decade’s resin of breakfast tea.
For as the minutes become yesterday.
There is still…
So much left to question.
So much left to say.