Monday, April 16, 2007

What it is





“My words trickle down from a wound that I have no intention to heal...”

~~Paul Simon

life is a series of stubbed toes
the result of careless jesters
hardened stances
that melt under scrutiny
small defiances
the glare when someone demands to know
fine tuning my sensitivities
maintaining the vertical capacity

an infinite number of collisions
with positional obtrusions
staring at the far field
forgetting the chasms
demoted to feeling
the same wounds
again and again

stripped of my armor
bound to a place
like a 13th century martyr
eyes rolled heavenward
accepting each poisoned dart
with calm resignation
and feeling each trickle
inch downward

even my smile is marred
last calling card of the snake oil salesman
unable to retreat
into ritual and ceremony
I wail and the sirens howl
navigating through the dark streets
muttering not now not now

life is a lingering disease
for which death is the only cure
you can’t cheat the taxman
or Charon
too many layers too many veils
between each
subtle field of awareness
here is my tithe, Persephone
my 10% doesn’t amount to much
now send these demons away

I won’t close the opening
or pluck out the arrows
I’ll guide the knife
if you supply the thrust
I want a clean wound
with no bone fragments
you can even twist it a bit
if you like

distinct refinements
this stone has a higher vibration
this tree casts a deeper shade
this tone is more pleasing
which tint of blue do you prefer for your sky
the sheen of satin
or the cotton sheet dynamic

life is an estate sale
you bid, you buy
and end up with someone else’s junk

© 2001 Melissa Songer

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