I was born a
romantic
Like a Grimm
Brother’s curse
Irony in the
semantics of a poet
Spinning golden
yarn alone into haystacks
Words cast in
yellow sticks bundled and packaged
Without sight of
sun just a gray-stone tower
Overlooking barren
fields, hearth absent kindle
Fire lost in the science
of time
Knowledge, but absent
the materials
The fungus on tree
trunks to keep lit like fuel
Quick to ignite
rudimentary fibers, magnesium flint
Or limbs un-soaked from
the storm, the humidity never wears down
No succumbing to
the minutes of arid grip
Lodged in the stoic
concrete of silence inebriated in a tsunami of a broken heart
I want to write
love poems, sweet and tender capable of burning
In light
illuminating passageways like polemics for island castaways
Lure the solitary
off the archipelago dare the leap to see the incomplete
As complements dancing
for stepping stones called out the cave and into the sirens
Welcoming in a
contradiction to every historical lyric taught
Makers standing,
singing from behind the bastions
I was born a
romantic
To love grandly, to
paint in a spectrum of hues beyond the average tenderness
And in this I have
set my brush into a desert clumped and mired in colors caked
The whiteness and
blackness have merged into the boredom of absence
Nothingness appears
like the sand ubiquitous in sentence after sentence
Ending with ampersand
after ampersand commingling
Like the incestuous
debt of a man who took for granted those who loved him
To be born into the
soul of a poet printing and scripting with no one to write to
So he speaks in
spirals of tomes alone to himself wanting to be who he is, alone and complete
Grown for who and
not for why’s stitched from the lies of other lives
The perfect space
of growing old without the taint of knowing
There is no reason
for reason other than choice
I make the hand
motion upon the palette, swirl the colors and chase the rabbits
Or sit upon the
stand, fire the gun and see death and life ignite a barren land
In brush fire
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