Voice from a long time ago.

I look back at all the faded images
that must be someone else
a hand to the sun

words do not know me now
I have left my mind behind
rolling in the dust

spaces that never cease to exist
in the imaginary
light pours forth to blind

highlight the unknown stranger
that distant other person
scorned by truth impure

wake from this place immortal
the skies cry not for who I am
I have become darker

there in pristine preservation
the source of my bitterness
sweetened only by a vision from within

defined with the pigment of the soul
on the canvas of the consciousness
burning into the night

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4 Comments

  1. Too many identities, something is bound to give, to break.

    Some days I stretch to feel the canvas, and it shrinks from my touch like a stilted lover, angry at my lost time, my disinterest, my loveless efforts toiled despite their inanimate nature. This folded a piece of me in two; what a movement. Words need exercise too.

    Words save us from the pieces we haven’t stumbled across yet.

    Words infiltrate as moonlight
    cloak reality in harsh,
    static white. Wake.

  2. @MOM…found in an old notebook, circa 1996 I think.

    @Melinda…Isn’t it against the Bloggers Code of Ethics to show up somone’s post with an even more profound and better written comment? Damn. (joke) Thanks for reading/commenting.

    @FCO…Budget has been cut and we no longer have translators on staff. Those funds now go to diapers and beer. Sorry.

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