They play games, your fantasies,
trampled upon by princely feet
pretending to sweep you up, away,
gilding nectar words that melt, sweetly
congruent to the delicate embroidery
that designs dreams of independent achievement.
If I was cut from a different cloth
a silk that could bend but not break,
finely woven with hand-me-down threads
actively aging, blended colors and adorned
by frayed ends breathing off small strands
of personality distinguishing my
quilted spirits from one another,
perhaps cloth covers would be
a relief before a means to disappear
unevenly, from the world.
I, know there is nothing to fear
for, I, have my windows open permitting
unfiltered light to naturally dance upon walls
but, I, know that those walls will never be more lively
than when, I, make-believe animals with shadows and cast
the absence of light against the wall with motionless movement
provided by the ever setting sun but, I, fear not the sun setting
nor do, I, fear the darkness that disembodies my imagination
and turns my out stretched hand foreign from my body
but rather, I, fear that this is as lively as my home
will ever become with walls colored through
created shadows instead of painted by
love, that is what scares me.
I hear my fingers silently reach,
delving into my denim pocket for the key
exhuming old-fashioned fantasies of adventure
juxtaposed in freshly defined black-ink,
spelling out “one way” on mass manufactured card stock.
The way however is never specified
so I recline, my serious thoughts resign to the
path set before, taking that pre-laid track
alongside others; but my trip
They know their destination,
eyes set, gleaming with determination to
get off at the right time,
others though, eyes closed or holding a gaze
with the floor stained by lament
for missing one stop,
still I enjoy my ride.
My traveled miles are arbitrary as
distance becomes useless when measuring
my memories, my childhood gets reborn on this journey,
imagination re-enters my vocabulary
re-defining my everything
until nothing is some-thing,
until I can…
halt, a sudden jerk brings an end
to previously endless seas of autumn leaves
replaced by unearthly steel
encased in adult marble.
Now my childish thoughts play on
in the back of my mind,
their only safe-haven.
You defined my imagination so let me redefine my mind still numb from the morphine drip, attempting to form morphemes in line to that steady beat drip-drip, drop, as my thoughts react synapse snap, I feel it necessary to stop yet you smile, flash, that photograph out of place of time, timeless, my words structured by deviations from my mean meaning extremes, stability torn until someone else stole me from that frame of reference and actually cared.
I try to talk
to engage you, actively,
in a dance of words with me.
Twisting our tongues around
sounds, giving way to reason, or,
allowing our imaginations to escape
the boundaries of our minds
yet you stand, statuesque,
firm in your ignorant state of non-amused
bliss, free from my conversation,
my creativity and words,