eclipse
(the idea of an idea
itself having an idea,
is your vulnerable
wanting a voice too,
individuation is at first
an odor that manifests
itself directly from
the spirit soup)
sometimes, poem and I
understand being yoked
embraced, clutching at thirsty words
most times I write
from pretense spun
into tapestries and mythologies
things I may have stolen
to bruise the fleshed bits
caught in my eyes...
sight convinced me
the observers
outside myself
were saying,
"the eyes are the Sun
and the nose is the Moon"...
a poem is fleeting captured life
just reading the falls
and daring one's self to believe
stones and bones
can be dressed
in skin glory and sin
and called a story
all their own
thrown, scattered
and strewn
we read
our hap-hazards
to find repeatable patterns...
a howl-wind night tells me
the cold is coming
I am to use gravity's armies
its unseen electrons
and porter portal
massed matter materialization
mirrors and rabbit holes
what souls go through
between quantum wobble,
and a belief in wombs
and the wave theorized
accordion membrane(d)
dimensions most humans
sometimes myself included
do not dare enter alone...
the symphonies I lean into
are what I consider music to find
my compass needle's purpose
in the haystack of chaos
disguised as modern life
I search for meaning
ancient and gleaning
in rivulets
of hypnotic imagery
I wrap and riddle
my fantasy driven mind with
I acknowledge I want to be laced
with what scent sees
so I place myself
inside poem's penumbra
to know the smell
of all that I surrender to...
like Daedalus, watching Icarus
just to see, if he can swim...
EJR ©
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