Two poems I wrote yesterday at Vita.
– Like drawing with a white pen –
Sketches capture souls,
like photos to the tribesmen,
like poems capture sentiment.
I’m the rough draft of my life,
shading incomplete;
random lines thrown out from my form
like an etch-a-sketch aura.
I offer myself up for completion.
My colors: white on white;
a gray-scale mentality;
high-contrast invisibility,
like a chameleon blending in with itself.
Come paint me with your impressions:
my skin in hues of music;
my hair: tendrils of blue-period bleak;
my shadow: melting sunbeams over wildflowers.
Sketches capture souls
like poems, sentiment;
like you, me.
–
– Colors of the flesh –
Spines fluid; weaving mobility,
sweat down the backbone:
rain flushed down pipes; smells like Summer.
Gutteral chants to hearts’ drumbeats,
an ancient rhythm.
You: sultry, sticky-skinned siren;
me:
Hand hover over hope,
rub the flesh-colors out to expose
God’s palette.
We scream denials of external divinity.
Our colors are our own.
As breaths become strong and fragile
and break against the window-panes;
fingers interwine like spider-thread,
tighten, knuckles pale and red.
All energies collapse, eventually:
stars to suns in the cold black,
skies fall under their own weight.
We fall in gasps,
break windows with our silent screams,
and release our fire into the air
so that the day might rise.
–
A lot of realizations lately,
some hard to come to terms with.
Ideals to aspire to,
but I’ve come to realize that even ideals,
in and of themselves,
can be treacherous.
Struggling quietly with Voltaire’s:
“Everything is for the best,
in the best of all possible worlds.”