the life of living.
.
sometimes the edges fall away
like brittle glass turning to dust
and we strangers in the wind
standing grasping unravelling cards
there is a time here, that isn't where
we stand, thinking perhaps we've gone mad
and the landscapes turn to smeared paint
little branches scratching the vastness
empty these houses,where home never lived
taking our shackles to the aquaphobic
empty the eyes where there sits only the moon
in a perfect curvature of the spine's drunken tune
and though perhaps, we mean to be cold,
we cannot suppress these avalanches, cannot
keep from crying in the middle of second hand
broken down, from the worn out clocks,
ringing in those hours before dawn,
creeping past us to shiver through storms
drinking the embers of half lit cocoons
and gingerly unfolding, like moths in the sun.
where is this place where nothing is present,
where the ache is backwards, and the cerebral persuits
chasing and chasing endless horizons
like wayward dogs, baffled coyotes shifting their pelts.
i sometimes feel like tapered glass
like brittle remnants of a disgraced past
i sometimes break so easily i'm fooled
that within this belljar lives a burning hell.
and though with carefully applied caution,
we still believe we may believe this
there is a long journey,marked in scrawled inks
turning and twisting and glistening wetly
before the jar is upturned again
and all we drew and all we insisted on
to try and form something more beautiful
something to startle the life back to our hands
we cannot begin the new swingset
without the wait at each station,spaced out
and ever persistent, in its salvation
when the lights are low, the glow is much more
than a soft encased tenderness, a brisk
wish thrown careless
and all the while we soldier on
in persuit of absolute
honesty.
while we build our strength
out of shell fragments and allowance
we must gather the ends
of the feathered,tattered revealing
i cannot make a perfect ship,
i cannot look into the sun without blinking
i cannot drag myself from this effect
i cannot mend myself overnight
the impossibilities are as endless
as the realities of possibility
our choice, our stubborn goddamned choice
is to never let this take us
and leave us a shell.
never let the emptiness we observed
creep up and consume our souls
never let the endless nights
tarnish our unforgiving love
never let the darkness we carry
keep us from balancing within the light
like a softly rotating dancer
upon the dust of all that has fallen
from our mouths and from our persistence
to learn to fashion ourselves
into the best art we can manage..
-J
sometimes the edges fall away
like brittle glass turning to dust
and we strangers in the wind
standing grasping unravelling cards
there is a time here, that isn't where
we stand, thinking perhaps we've gone mad
and the landscapes turn to smeared paint
little branches scratching the vastness
empty these houses,where home never lived
taking our shackles to the aquaphobic
empty the eyes where there sits only the moon
in a perfect curvature of the spine's drunken tune
and though perhaps, we mean to be cold,
we cannot suppress these avalanches, cannot
keep from crying in the middle of second hand
broken down, from the worn out clocks,
ringing in those hours before dawn,
creeping past us to shiver through storms
drinking the embers of half lit cocoons
and gingerly unfolding, like moths in the sun.
where is this place where nothing is present,
where the ache is backwards, and the cerebral persuits
chasing and chasing endless horizons
like wayward dogs, baffled coyotes shifting their pelts.
i sometimes feel like tapered glass
like brittle remnants of a disgraced past
i sometimes break so easily i'm fooled
that within this belljar lives a burning hell.
and though with carefully applied caution,
we still believe we may believe this
there is a long journey,marked in scrawled inks
turning and twisting and glistening wetly
before the jar is upturned again
and all we drew and all we insisted on
to try and form something more beautiful
something to startle the life back to our hands
we cannot begin the new swingset
without the wait at each station,spaced out
and ever persistent, in its salvation
when the lights are low, the glow is much more
than a soft encased tenderness, a brisk
wish thrown careless
and all the while we soldier on
in persuit of absolute
honesty.
while we build our strength
out of shell fragments and allowance
we must gather the ends
of the feathered,tattered revealing
i cannot make a perfect ship,
i cannot look into the sun without blinking
i cannot drag myself from this effect
i cannot mend myself overnight
the impossibilities are as endless
as the realities of possibility
our choice, our stubborn goddamned choice
is to never let this take us
and leave us a shell.
never let the emptiness we observed
creep up and consume our souls
never let the endless nights
tarnish our unforgiving love
never let the darkness we carry
keep us from balancing within the light
like a softly rotating dancer
upon the dust of all that has fallen
from our mouths and from our persistence
to learn to fashion ourselves
into the best art we can manage..
-J