Sometimes lightning...
We are of those dead who are not
convinced they are dead,
always hidden behind the gates,
like thieves, in the background, behind the door
of happiness (but with the laces
untied), with their noses in the air, and waiting
an opportunity to return. Well nevermind,
but stop spitting on the walls.
Sometimes lightning...
Speak, speak of ashes, of dew, speak
with eyes closed and lips that chatter
alone, automatically, unintentionally, speak
it's like saying, “nothing. Patience. So be it.
We will see each other again, fear not.”
But then the melancholy returns, like a fool,
and I turn around, run home
for fear that my son in the crib
has caught fire.
Let me reach out a hand girls let me
extend: life is a waltz; a thunderstorm.
Sometimes lightning...
About the Creator
MecAsaf
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Comments (3)
Grief? Yearning for someone who is no longer there? The line about the son in the crib was powerful, a real instinctive paranoia. Your poems make me think. They're not always clear to me - I feel like I am reading a puzzle through a veil - but they contain strength in your word choices and how you form them.
This was so awesomeeee! I loved it!
Be a lightning person