The Illness From the sky sick hands grab my lungs i cough to save my dreams they float blue bodies from my eyes Infected fingers from the earth sprout black orchids rip into my thighs, colonize my bowels a fever boils my mind From my forehead everything I loved drips into twisted streams where gurgling moans swallow the last remnants of tenderness that embraced my eyes with the only holy pictures I ever could believe in even though I worried about the fate of every face I kissed poem I wrote, the consequence to everything I handled since the illness stole softness from my touch Stuck midst the burning city my bones melt a lost mausoleum every trinket i kept from every place i traveled topic i built into a solitary library whose leafy shelves never failed to offer solace from the press of my ashen touch, crumble a painful nothing Maple lips weep their goodbye as everything collapses despite the wheezing flames that rise to hold what’s left together that courageous struggle to endure long enough to buckle another day in my waist belt stand a decoy for those who know better than i the way to live underground protest without shooting themselves knit a better world from the greener threads of their socks I glimpse a vision beyond these dark clouds that embrace me with their casket arms I hope it’s not the fever painting lies the ones I ate, walked to school with, went to work for wrapped up as the best birthday presents i could give ignorant of the illness of generations i passed on This light that reaches me feels something of forgiveness it glows a menthol freshness this generation may not have every answer tucked deep in their earthy pockets still i sense they will smell the lies better contain the illness © Jeff Cannon, 10/16/2014, 1:57 am at desk
Posted on: Thu, 16 Oct 2014 06:20:23 +0000
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