My Hands speak in Riddles

[rebelwaste]

8/5-14

My Hands Speak in Riddles

A picture is a metaphysical time sphere
A penny’s drop in a wishing well
Ripples made
Lead eyes to see drowned coins
Distorted by distant eyes

And supposed memories can burn
Homeless hands warmed by burning pages
And faces
But warmed hands held too close
Or lost in daydreams
Will be burned

Either drowned or burned
We cannot help but remember memories
Because memories cannot be forgotten
It’s their nature

Pictures can still be dried
Pictures burned live as ash

Well remembered ashes inhabit urns
Well remembered ashes are flown

But my mind is drowning
And my mind is burning
Its capacity for idiocy known

I’m a poet
But I want to burn each and every one of my poems
A Metaphor devolving into insanity

I’m a memory
And I want to be coated in melted copper
And drown in a wishing well
So the ripples of my picture will be seen beyond time

I’m a metaphor
I want to be a sphere
A copper sphere
Burning in dead memories
I am smarter than eye
Hanging pages on walls
Covering the holes I made with my fists