golden rooms

the Stalker keeps whispering in fragments and the day gets drug into night until there is no stopping point to which there must be a breath taken or the tide shall drag one deep into sand that offers no quick release of a wayward footprint that vanishes as the moon rises above us at uncountable feet but it is certainly in the southern sky if this is the northern hemisphere – what did he mean about the strong what happens to the vulnerable if they fail to find a caretaker to take their hand – this hand continues callused deep from digging a framework for a structure that must be strong

If we are trained to strip our sleeves of any visible imprint, does that mean we are meant for a solitary death. These sleeves stopped growing while still growing because buttons were a cause of suffering if no one was there to thread needle with string. Does the Stalker’s prophecy board up these strong walls’s windows and doors.

(a poem – a dream – a whisper that would not stop until it was inked along the pulpy side of a tree split, how her rings glowed in the early years until someone learned slash and burn – forgive this final engraving upon your hardening shell)

i want you
to follow these steps
forget form in this fiction
it is the ability to move
to create action
friction between us
without going under
drowning in that made up
benediction that crossed us
holy until we spilt his water
upon dirty black soles
that always squeaked and we
knew he was upon us

i want you
to believe these things
but someone told me
your root has gone rot
you taste bitter now
vinegar traps fruitflies
bitterness wells on my tongue
sweet and your thick
molasses taps deep
do not learn anything from poets

i want you
to weave between this
and her golden plume
rid of these plastic borders
paint orchids, no, just one
for Georgia and i will cut it
open planting this final seed

i want you
to remember this memory
not to bury the roses
come winter, plant sunflowers next spring
Van Gogh painted the house
yellow, his flowers
died in blazing golds

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6 Comments

  1. Yet another strong work.

    You must have been stalking me on my recent trip to Florida. This poem resonated. so well with the mood I was in and came back home to. (I am trying to make tine to write about it. They’re killing me at work).

    Reply
  2. Powerful, all of it. And the close, magnificent:

    i want you
    to remember this memory
    not to bury the roses
    come winter, plant sunflowers next spring
    Van Gogh painted the house
    yellow, his flowers
    died in blazing golds

    Reply
    • it is a bit of a jumble, but glad that something resonated, Sue…that little voice, not voice in the head, but the one that kinda sings in the back of my mind when doing the mundane has been quite vocal, so trying to capture what I can since rarely is there time to jot it down until much much later. ~ a

      Reply
  3. Reblogged this on Change is Never Ending.

    Reply

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