Every night before
I die I hear the rectangled window whir,
Whir and whistle and hum and laugh and love.
I imagine the magnetic mind behind
It's calm visage jot,
lamenting symphonies where
oceans, valleys, plains, converge.
That penniless black box is the richest man in rooms
A lonely bachelor doused
In paraffin and plastic,
Wide eyes walking a raw carpet in
formation.
Fine Scholar, ever over indulged.
Rooted and submerged.
With Tentacles as meticulous messengers that tug and
beg for volume.
Wonder I
If the smooth metal face in my bedroom sings out of love
Or out of longing
for a line like a thread and a binary lullaby.
YOU ARE READING
Happy-Sad Poetry
PoetryA collection of poems written by me over several years, many of which contain deep dark worries and fears. It isn't light stuff, but please lose yourself in my words and come out the other side a different person.
