All clouds bask in the perfect, but
this bed-sheet caravan
never stops to rest. Their
plastic-brass buttons sewn
through navy coats, a brief
glimpse of an ashen baclava -
their mahogany hammers crashing on painted shorelines.
Why was the unconscious named forsaken? I try to relate,
to comprehend,
perhaps, erase the gasoline from my bare feet.
Rapid thunderclaps are applause for an ignorance,
and this knocking remains to me,
a failure of proof. I can feel the bowstrings in my legs,
rising gravity around my lungs, and
the stalks of flames should hurt more then they are.
My heart knows it is a forsaken. I have read the bulletins ten, twenty,
a hundred worried times. The brush remains a subject of purity
against forceful intensity, but I know why I still
dreamed in the fire, and these clouds never
sleep.
YOU ARE READING
The Forsaken, Unconscious
PoetryA work on the horrors of repression. On how being noticed is the worst possible opportunity, and why sometimes, it's better to stay asleep.
