leave you stuck between worlds like window dressings.
Rich-timbred forces pull apart,
reproduce & deliver you here.
Unknowingly influential in your scholar gypsy stance,
like yew trees,
others take your words & thoughts to make their own.
You muse to a past life where hearts were king.
It was good to see you passing through
this land of lesser good.
Helping me seek loves labors
& finding that not all are lost.
Images of broken, bud-faced bodies
pool at my feel like the land of misfit toys
& take me to the lovely cloud
where all good music goes.
The ones who left before, too soon, collect,
Make space for you & your new life to shapeshift
back down to earth
one full rotation
& take me with you.
III. Tripp.
I write you letters with no means of delivery. Maybe pass on to worms like Euridice's dad.
I pray celestial stones don't dip you in the river of forgetting words, songs, loves, ideas.
What do you do?
No purpose but passing the time to when another reaches 10th dimensional ground
of paper punching holes in our real world with old, dull pencils.
Remember that self-control, rule & line only create false boundaries.
I push past the gates of my holding tank,
only to sit 'neath streams of ash you blew just last week.
I leave windows rolled down like you do for fear of losing closeness.
I know you hear our rack-screamings for you.
& untold stories.
& want out of new, half-strung rooms
to fly.
love. sb
No comments:
Post a Comment