Smoke From A Distant Fire
You show me this world to reveal its seductive beauty.
The unpleasant dream that awakens you to tell you how pretty you are
When you fall from great height's into your own hands.
The reddening of your palms from gripping that moment
too hard your fingertips can no longer move with the dexterity
to sculpt anything because that effigy was burned long ago.
They cut the stem of the weeping statute that wilted,
too brittle to even cast a shadow for itself. And you've dreamt about this
before you could even remember how pieces of you were broken into ruble
and how they still fit together that even from a distance, they still resemble you.
The unpleasant dream that awakens you to tell you how pretty you are
When you fall from great height's into your own hands.
The reddening of your palms from gripping that moment
too hard your fingertips can no longer move with the dexterity
to sculpt anything because that effigy was burned long ago.
They cut the stem of the weeping statute that wilted,
too brittle to even cast a shadow for itself. And you've dreamt about this
before you could even remember how pieces of you were broken into ruble
and how they still fit together that even from a distance, they still resemble you.
How could you atone for so many and not be sanctified?
Estranged from an archaic portrait that echoes your features.
You carry a song the way you carried me as a child.
How those cesarean sections became dried up riverbeds
the topography of estuaries, basins, burial sites and this way
of poeming is so much softer than the harsh life you lived,
that you had to watch it again and again against your will.
It could be viewed as a house that partially enclosed us
bundled us up in winter months when words pushed
softly through your lips broke up clumps of words you
couldn't pronounce and the continuous permafrost of your accent.
How we would blow on embers in the dying fire.
Eventually we would die with it.
Estranged from an archaic portrait that echoes your features.
You carry a song the way you carried me as a child.
How those cesarean sections became dried up riverbeds
the topography of estuaries, basins, burial sites and this way
of poeming is so much softer than the harsh life you lived,
that you had to watch it again and again against your will.
It could be viewed as a house that partially enclosed us
bundled us up in winter months when words pushed
softly through your lips broke up clumps of words you
couldn't pronounce and the continuous permafrost of your accent.
How we would blow on embers in the dying fire.
Eventually we would die with it.