Afterglow

I thought I'd post the poems that I rewrote for reading last Wednesdy.

(Untitled)

I'm sorry.
It was another life.
And it was
Another dream.
And I was
All but asleep in your arms.

Hear it,
That breathing
Soft
And even.
I am
Out of control.

Denial
Is the first sign
Of inconstance.
We are
Two pods in a pea
We can never be.

But,

You smiled.
To transform the world.
Stars settled
In the pools of your eyes
Universes dangle
From a new center.

I'm sorry
It was another life,
And I was
All but asleep in your arms.



Dry Eyed Terror

The quiet children on my floor
With bovine eyes. They shut the door,
And leave me on my own once more.

Inside TV news enspells by view
Almost old and almost new
Hiding from the naked truth.

But through the kitchen dusts a thud
Neighbours screaming out for blood.
My fragile peace is churned to mud.

Out the lift and down the street,
Gutters cleanse my sinful feet
But leav my conscience seared complete.

Trecking through filled parking lots
Through a veil of heavan's drops
I cannot find what I have lost.

Till in halls of home once more
I confront that silent door.
Freed by pity kept in store
For the quiet children on my floor.



Acidity

You're not a ship
To carry me
When the weather's rough
And raging.
You're not a dream
To fade away
Soon as I came
To waking,
Like the morning fog.
But you are gone.

This is not a day
For tears,
Not a night for
Goodbyes.
You are not the one
Who broke my world.
You're not the one
To set it to rights.
You are my daylight
As I hold you in my arms,
And gently let you go.



The Ballad of Dwight Fry

A simple man sits there
By himself. Alone
But for the frantic screaming
Scratching from his phone.
As time itself drips slowly
And wetly from the roof
Of the overhanging overhead
Onto his polished boots.
He shudders small and frightened
With each indrawing breath
Steeling a wailing spirit,
To the icy call of death.

Till by and by
He makes reply:
"Mister, won't you reconcider?
My fortunes on the stakes
And it's time to make or break!"

Into the barren sunlight
And crunching of his feet,
Down a garden path, at once
Too spartan and too neat.
A shiver peirces his vacant thoughts,
The alien breath of breeze
Stirs him to despairing
As it whiskers through the trees.
Till even birds ring futile
As they patch their fragile nests,
They can but fuel his sorrows
At the icy touch of death.

Defeated on a park-side bench
Hollow smiles ride his lips
Curling into jagged snarls
To launch a thousand ships.
"Are you lost?" probed a stranger
Passing through the morn-cloaked grounds,
With eyes of tranquil saphire
"Or waiting to be found?"
"Sir", he breathed so hoarsely,
That man too doomed to die:
"Can there be tomorrows
For a lost soul such as I?"
Spoke that stranger softely:
"Sir tis plain to me,
Tomorrows come for all men
Just you wait and see."





And also, one poem which I sadly neglected to read, harrowed as I was by the intellectual stares of those before me:



I think I lost myself
In a pocket of the past,
Or in my other pants.