PoeticCondition

Was just a painting - splashes of color put to a wide empty canvas - not particularly special but what do I know? with my tired eyes and yet... The dinosaur was a child, wobbling on a mountaintop - short legs not meant to climb and yet... attainment! Looking out over a valley where a gloomy ice age had begun to creep, to devour... All alone, one of a kind, crying out... tears of a kind in my mind fell from that cliff... Give the reptile a human voice and there you have Man. We cry out for many things- for hope, for home, for life and for love to whom or what for whatever our tired eyes may covet.

My creative juices are dried, crusted, thick, like the bluebird of happiness hitting your window, sticky syrup for your pie.

     When you are young, they will treat you with the softness of spring. They will guide you through the winter winds and over snowy hills, admiring the brilliance of your midday innocence; pulling daisies from the earth just to place them in your hair. And they will whisper to each other of how beautiful you are.     When you grow older, they will treat you with the indifferences of autumn. They will urge you from the complacency of your own fleeting fulfillments, and they will watch your brilliance fade with the swiftness of the sky. You will shed your fragile childhood with the colors of the trees, and you will learn to face

This tangled mess you call a heart, daisy veins & sin; She's bringing me down. & you were merely shivering kite-string clavicles. Nothing, pressing winter bones against my sun-stricken mouth, darkness searching for a home buried in my lungs. You whispered breathe me lovely in the inhale/exhale of carbon dioxide suicide. She speaks only of you now, lonely & mourning beats- Crack open this damn ribcage; set me            free.

Bone blossoms, a ghost of iris- blue so pale, it slips off the page and sheets. You know the scent; you borrowed it from some girl who was your best friend. You slept together in the same bed; she borrowed your sweater and bracelet, and kissed you when mother was not looking. You fed her books and strawberries left out in the sun, ripe as the boy next door. She put her hand in yours one warm night in August and asked you what it made you think of. Just blossoms you said - teal and purple, feathered like summer - like the summer when you were five and the heat just could not keep away and the sky went out.