Sunday, January 22, 2012

This One Sits Waiting

I risk the sounding of cliche
To settle back and gently let go
I have suffered the trauma
Of these words before,
It is safe to say:
I don't know how.

It threatens the Mystery
And robs me of my pursuits.
These emerald depths are so sad,
So that i still choose them,
Bring back from them,
Cold stones covered in moss.
And inscribe them.

One more forgotten dream.
One more poem i didn't write.
One more time the waves
Arise, overwhelm, and washout;
Retreat into and, vanish.

These empty ribs - tattooed hands.
Capturing sketches of the songs
The ravens sing, the owls mourn.
This one, within his limits
Sits. Waiting.