Won’t you fall asleep with us tonight?
my friend?
The stars are sure the sun is down
no longer frightened of the man
with the fiery breath
who walks amongst the concrete slabs
in search of that which melts
Saving each second of slavery for
the savory destruction of the memories
kept in the softest, coolest part of the
confines aloft the consciousness
of the hopeful collective of loose fitting
individuals caught up in the midnight dance
flirting with the moonlight
Hungry for the soft flesh of fruit to tear
between their teeth while the juice stains
their cheeks with the evidence of their fervor.
There be no solace here where the wind
takes charge of the branches and the
trees watch over the man like mothers
guarding their roosts
filled with mongrels who may steal for their food
but only because the food was kept
under lock and key & key and ring
deeply buried in the pockets with the money
of the key keepers, who dare not share
the food lest the initial flow start the
inertia of a river that was standing
inert as a lake-still-breeding
decaying-manifesting the life that death may birth
if left unattended as if the boatman
was asleep. But he’s just a man really
what more to expect? A man must sleep
and eat and breathe. What more? What more would
such a man need? Provided with work, food, breath,
and rest? And being one of these needs,
food begs to be stolen by those who are kept
without it. Begs, like a traitor for his
life as death begins to waft around his
nose like a candle long since snuffed.
Not to worry young traitor for the churchbells
will ring in your honor And should you look east
You will find what they call reincarnation
Much like the life of a grape that then
becomes wine, that turns into vinegar that
is used to disinfect the bodies that fill
the hole in the earth made by man, filled
with men, filled by men only to be displaced
by nature and never to be found again.
One can not hope, ever, to bury one’s
treasure in the same manner that one would
bury a body . One cannot hope at all
unless he invests his hope in that which
cannot be buried. Perhaps then he will
have invested wisely, by widely or not
an investment is never ‘sure’ and thusly
requires faith. Hope a commodity comes along
that one need not leave to chance.That
one need not bury.
These are not the words of a dying man but take them as you will.
Words invested on paper in hopes of finding
an eye, being elevated to image in hopes
of finding a thought to be recycled again
into a consciousness that will conceive such
a thought and aspire to be etched onto
a page in ink.
