Not so far away now,
Coasts inching closer,
Asking: what took you so long?
Well, the world curves
For the both of us,
But I’m too timid to
Say anything, so
Instead I’ll let the miles
Roll backward and give to me
The Home I know, rather
Than the adopted one
I currently accept.
We live to die,
A quiet death in a years time –
After age has folded itself
Into a strange beast;
A blend of regression, and a world
Seen and tossed aside.
Do not let pain enter, nor
Force Heroism to join either,
Simply offer a soft bed,
And the quaint blind
Excitement of getting into
Bed for a quiet nights sleep,
For it to all fade away.
In the slow fall of evening
Pain becomes the word, the
Soft and welcoming word, to
Bring the world together.
Got to have one, two, to
Soften the sound of the harsh
Reminder of where you once were.
But, I must tell you, forget
The word passed to you, the sharp
Bend that cut your ears and heart,
Because for the moment,
You are home.
Time gives way to memory, or
Memory shapes time, with
All of the squares lined in
Little rows to confuse the two.
To linger in unknown, does not
Tear away the man from the memory,
But that is the method one gauges time.
But, how does time work when our
Memories are only pieces created in time.
Great gobbling mouths never fill themselves,
Endlessly starving and feeding simultaneously,
Wanting what was, and what will be.
A taste that fails to disappear, a desire without end –
How the sense builds in the mind,
Taking on a life of it’s own –
This is what lingers in the gently
Caressing kiss of memory.
Starry eyed with the shapeless man,
Folding and unfolding colorless
Traumas unseen in his vapid eyes.
The sorrow and the joy becoming words,
No more than love and grief,
But, to bend in soft graces,
Finding self in smaller, impersonal
Triumphs brings envy to light.
To feel without feeling,
Quickly as the mind can make it,
Is what fame this man this man is
Recognized by. Wanting collapses
As want is removed from deep
Behind the eyes, experience
Disappears close behind.
Take from him your shape, and life
Flits away unknowlingly.
The sound, though unlived,
Still creaks under the slow
Stutter, with which it’s name
Is whispered. The mother cries
At a life unknown to her; the word,
Still stained with a blood blind
To it’s grain, and through it all
The earth continues its precise revolution.
How do you escape the whispered
Chatter of a history never lived?
There is only walking,
With a soft tear,
On and on and on.