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| Illustration by Boris Diodorov |
we made what was considered
a risky proposition at the time
our souls for immortality
the thinking was that
we could shepherd the fraility
of our bones and flesh humanity
every community that arose
usually near where rivers flowed
from ancient mountains
still standing
after the awakenings
of cataclysm and cull
these river towns
full of thieves
and thistle gardens
had a stick-to-it-ive-ness
to ways we work and play
to ways we produce Life
as music and art
acknowledging
to the self, that
without which
infinity granted
turns
another hell
all
together
she had a bed chamber feather routine
witch was one part poutine
one part fondled memories
and one part arrest
where fingers, lip and tongues
run off to when
wanting to be
articulate limbs
ambulated soul
keep on moving
rain and tide
mother may I
basket myself again
where the milk runs
sweet water a
gain
it begins with stories
to children
and the falling asleep
the dream realms
are carriages
of contracts
for the spirit
to remain
embodied
whilst soul-less
a blessed guess
would be
looking glass
getting past
facts as faces
facets of what is
getting bloody
letting ourselves
into why tomes
are bones
the poems find
for soul to remember
why it is this way
we came to know
joy too stops time
without bargaining away
another part
of our soul today
we die to live
we live to die
matters not
slothful or spry
without Love
there is only
why
EJR ©
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