a mid-summer day, as ordinary as yesterday and as petulant as tomorrow,
the westward sloping sun casts a glint warm and aglow with luster,
I stand before the mess I've made, what a waste of my thoughts.
a melee of contradictions, so many self's inside a solitary vessel,
there water is still, for a second I see myself in it, full of ripples and muddled.
if to live is to do, maybe it is within me,
a will to live and do,
long ago sundered by the divinities that govern fleeting whims,
like some sort of world split apart across its edges,
bleeding, bleeding,
nothing much remains to eddy.
I vehemently find myself reminding my head,
I exist, I exist, I exist.
yet there are days, days that I swear the wind catches onto the sounds,
I wouldn't dare utter or make,
it carries with it a howling, but not like the kind that is familiar to its own treble,
but something else entirely that was horrible and low, that of a monster trapped
beneath the earth, like the anguished cries the Minotaur may have sung once,
trapped in the Labyrinth, forever expelled from the world.
there are rivers and streams, of steady flowing reason and wit,
vast valleys of detachment, trenches of deep misunderstanding,
I tread these with the people I find,
and am bewildered still by the common creatures we harbor,
the ones we cast away and hope night dispels out of sight.
there's a chasm between us all,
one so filled with disbelief and of unscalable unfamiliarity,
it would leave us all stranger still to each other,
like we're children that've outgrown little lies,
and even if we were spirited away in the dead of night,
by the most beguiled changelings, shape shifters of wonder,
little pixies or faes or nymphs of the forest and of gentle water,
all a mind can imagine,
we would find their sayings false.
YOU ARE READING
Almond Blossoms
PoesíaNamed after my favorite Van Gogh painting, I try to give some feelings words.
