THINE EYES!
October 14, 2020
Compressed black and swallowed, it lays buried inside a canvas of melted, foolish lines.
Busted color leaked into solidarity on an open pupil.
Trapped inside a fluxing current smudged with bereavement and the blissful madness in-bedded from
the gluttony of au courant moments, moments true and peeled,
moments rotted and soiled in the profoundness bathing inside the ticking unanimity of ones own mind; visible existence.
And oh the things it bares witness to;
Transportive passions spun into the playful minds of eager architects.
Mid-summer sky’s, boiling, smiling, scolding the skin.
How it exchanges the dreams planked inside the weary tear ducts of tepid cooling clouds.
And blackness, born from a speechless space, an alchemistic abyss; one third of our lives.
What paradise finds home inside these jello eyes?
For it is they that wrote this, not I.
Eyes of white,
Eyes of gold,
Courted and neatly trimmed by the thoughts of Michael Angelo.
These glinting, darting, dancing eyes,
Why they have no option but to nebulously sink, in occasion, behind the squint of suspicious lids.
Safeguarded at all times.
But while they remain veiled beneath weakened lids,
They remain open,
fixated inside the belly of a crepuscular night;
They do not sleep.
Invisible Maestro
October 8, 2020
It pecked upon the twigs sloshed inside a pond of warm blooded mud just between a briars patch.
Through the rose window and beyond the rumpled Victorian curtain, my eyes were fixed;
Upon this bird, adorned in a black feather coat and emerald eyes, was calm tranquility, as it slowly tugged, no, merely kissed the twig, in hopes of resurrecting it from the dampness of yesterday’s rain.
And nearby a tree guarded this Rusty Blackbird from rays of light and the wind, from slight of sound.
Transfixed I was in the facile movement of nature, symphonically conducted by an invisible maestro.
Finally, after minutes of bearing witness to this dance, I saw the mud birth not one, but a string of twigs bound to each other, like the pearls upon my mother’s neck.
Delighted, or seemingly so, the blackbird dragged, collected and flew away;
And as I stood, weighted in a lachrymose farewell, a preponderance of thoughts pecked at the pool of mud gathered in a frozen place inside my heart.
Only, where was my maestro and does he know my name?
So I sat and took to ink and paper my plight.
And while heavy in eyes, I wrote this, blotted in the vanity of self-pity and below the breast, where forlorn feelings often linger without a tree to shade or wind to silence;
In hopes that I too, will be like the Rusty Blackbird, drenched in pined watchfulness from a distant window, with a pile of twigs at my leisure, in perfect time, as I too, will collect and fly away, leaving it all behind.
