Voiced through stale
Of raw emotional
Starved by unparalleled
Shrouded on narrow streets of
Searching for dreams the night no longer holds.
I’ve passed by hundreds of people today.
Hello to a stranger, a thing of the past?
If we had no texts, emails, or search bars in constant sight, would we see? Constant communication, but where are the words?
Waiting for the bank to open, I sat near a woman and child. The woman was showing images of the moon to the child. The child looked and said, “that’s big, are those holes?” The woman, “craters.” The child, “oh.” That was the extent of it.
I remember the smell of fresh cut grass. Color lost to moons light. I would strain to see the moon, I thought of kids playing and laughter, my ear would strain to hear and my eye to see, would someone answer my “hello!” Would they wave back? Are you awake? After all this is your day, you have the light of sun and I your light of moon. Night isn’t really night and dark not truly felt. If dark had not come, I would not see you and wonder about you.
I remember paved roads, how could you be moving and following me? Do you wonder while on paved roads, if I’m following you too? Do you strain to hear laughter and strain to see kids playing? Are you waiting for my hello? Are you writing about the wonderment you see when you look up? Are you searching for words about me?
Do you see what I see? People searching for you while looking down at images that cannot follow them down paved roads. Do you wonder as I do, have you the moon become to easy to see?
Do you still wonder if I’m wondering about you following me along paveds roads?
Surrender to languages of pain, within a beauty to behold.
Surrender to words that turn love to cold.
Surrender to stories of nights refusing to grow old and dawns you cannot hold.
It is here true poetry is told.
Words pursue and explore my being that stories of old may bleed upon new canvasses, ink mixed of beauty and flaw.
To some this pen a mere tool. This pen a vessel by which rhythms of blemish flow. With this pen I lay rather than you for it’s ink never runs dry nor cold.
This ink speaks of moments, moments of forbidden thoughts. Moments of continual nights and distant dawns.
Without this ink no blood would flow and canvasses wax old.
This shadow a companion, a constant ever before me. A reminder of what truly is.
This shadow utters, “look down, of this earth you are conceived, composed of dust. A wordless poem formed of ground.”
Upon dusk before the shadow is no more, this shadow utters, “look up, for you need this too! Freedom lay above. Wonderment and solace rest beyond the clouds. Formed of sky and earth, to both you return.”
This shadow beckons and at times more real than I, “walk humbly upon that of which you were formed. Let the eye hold the wonder of all that lay beyond stars, for from this wonderment you were composed.”
“To write is to understand all stories speak of life and death. We are christened by both, upon inhale the doves delicate breath of life, upon exhale the ravens breath of death. Breath, the gentle reminder of a poet/writers true christening.”
Before the poet lay boundless words, yet they fail to express endless depths.
A whisper fallen upon deaf ears.
What the blind hear, a continuos wind that speaks upon skin.
Only the deaf can see the calm beneath raging seas.
A wave from figures handless.
Utterances that speak of the sway within still portraits.
To write of emotions that rest within sculpted images.
3am has no end, the poet gropes for words at noon.