jeebus13
Bluelighter
Literal indignity and the night sky
seem to meet somewhere in my eyes.
I remember wheres and hows and whys
but the whens seem to have run off with the spoon,
how very forklike.
Chastising the memories
that have chastised me,
as if they even remember my name.
I have fallen into dumbstruck
and am sinking deeper and deeper.
No heroes left to villify
and I wonder what will happen
when third eyes everywhere
look with disdain upon the creation
of ignorant pair eyes.
When did it all start running together in my head?
My heart keeps neat and orderly files
in empty cabinets and drawers.
Soul has left me a note:
"Gone south for the summer. Love the beach.
Wish you were here... well, maybe not."
I guess the sense of humor is still intact,
or was it packed away with Soul's clothes
and perpetually unread and unwritten books.
Some days feel longer than others
and some people seem to worry about length
and width more than others.
Not me.
I left Worry sitting on a bus station bench
in Nashville this winter.
Postcards from parts of me
just can't seem to warm these cold bones
and the sun has been out all along.
And someone whispers
in a voice I heard through a child's ears...
"Time for letting go again.
Why did you hold on in the first place.
I love you
and you love me
and no one will remember us in ten years.
Let's write a song to sing on the way...
who cares where
just sing."
And I do.
seem to meet somewhere in my eyes.
I remember wheres and hows and whys
but the whens seem to have run off with the spoon,
how very forklike.
Chastising the memories
that have chastised me,
as if they even remember my name.
I have fallen into dumbstruck
and am sinking deeper and deeper.
No heroes left to villify
and I wonder what will happen
when third eyes everywhere
look with disdain upon the creation
of ignorant pair eyes.
When did it all start running together in my head?
My heart keeps neat and orderly files
in empty cabinets and drawers.
Soul has left me a note:
"Gone south for the summer. Love the beach.
Wish you were here... well, maybe not."
I guess the sense of humor is still intact,
or was it packed away with Soul's clothes
and perpetually unread and unwritten books.
Some days feel longer than others
and some people seem to worry about length
and width more than others.
Not me.
I left Worry sitting on a bus station bench
in Nashville this winter.
Postcards from parts of me
just can't seem to warm these cold bones
and the sun has been out all along.
And someone whispers
in a voice I heard through a child's ears...
"Time for letting go again.
Why did you hold on in the first place.
I love you
and you love me
and no one will remember us in ten years.
Let's write a song to sing on the way...
who cares where
just sing."
And I do.
