Pulse Mud upon mud, like a landslide, I tumble downward – over stones collected to reflect moonlight, galleries of gold grown step upon step forming knolls– as I hear balance betray standing. Jump fast out of bed spinning and puke instead - onto to an unslept rug dry, corrupted by cold foreign hands, ghosts that turn night-buzz into sand – to vomit is just one other way to cry. Rain falls from inside and out eyes at near timed intervals - like atonal bells, only from damp self-inflicted signals, invisible moving pictures impossibly recalled when projected onto walls – until dirt fog lifts and we are still there. Distant sounds, like volume turned low or an unborn child, wait to be reconciled – suspended while salt unknown pulls rope thread by narrow intent of which to hold eyes that, without thought, kiss unclosed – under stars pulsed ages ago to shelter love. RP © 2014
Posted on: Sun, 26 Oct 2014 17:16:11 +0000
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