So sometimes I think that I’m not sure I want more words in this world;
Before I was born already so many whispering such truths,
Hurled into the air to seep into my ears listening while I slept even.
Some of them (sooth) were glistening even before they were uttered,
Others so vile that spears of betrayal falling from heaven felt no more fettered to evil…
And I believed them all.
So… so why say more?
I’ve said so much before, you know, not with my own voice I suppose,
It’s just that my perspective’s as slippery as prose, so… should I speak in poetry??
So… yesterday (so wintry, lonely, fractured!) yesterday before I entered the library
I moved the air with that soft touch of sweet vocality that you exhale
Like trying to rid yourself of insomnia’s unreality;
And when I returned from the seat of wide-awake reason - those words in there -
I was spurned by the silence that had heard din where I’d breathed,
had called foul and fallacy refusing to hold that sleepless yet dreamy seething
(and was probably right)
Even so!... a slight tremor of recognition, a glimmer of bereaved sentiment
Any solace even in flight, just so that it’s not gone… might have conceived
Some sort of strength to hold together those palms that stretch from bed to bed
Of those separated sleeping silent lovers (current confusion with past certainty),
Strength to hold the parallel (communicating yet unconnected) lines from collapsing
Under the duration of the distance of the friction of such geometric reason…
So, can I at least awake without the sound of diction and composition,
The work of others in my ears? It’s not that I haven’t found them wonders
In the right season, but they rarely connect rationally to my own dreams and fears…
So how do I know which will unite me and which split me asunder?
