. . .Her Passage
. . .from a place guarded. And only opened for us in a flash of a moment.
She bathes in rattlesnake sunshine--calling her moon with faded song
Broken glass dancers bow when she inhales the red clover aromas
Of lives once lived. Now torn with mocking laughter sweet.
Never walking. Staring through empty sockets, she's frozen
A soul once adorn. A soul once youthful. Placed awkwardly,
Out of place. Faces too strange. And raindrops belong to Judas
Golden hair, perfect to touch. My skin ragged, borne her blood
Took his sword. Her lover's opaque cloak. Slipping, fading deeper
in her darkness mind.
A fountain once served. A girl once laughed. No one with touch
Crowds, throngs, whores and kings, drink similar when fading
More crowns for dogs. A queen she was. A raven she is now
Take. Took. Taking. Taken. One yellow secret I hid
Stars abound. Flames in ground. One final tear from a sultry eye
A memory divided. Jealousy unbridled. While Satan bows his head
No power in Zeuss. No turn in axis. A nameless tombstone, at last
Cardinals cry. Rebellious September sky. A sepent begs to die.
From where I lay. From where she sits. Abyss in pretty colors
The children seek. Innocence they keep. And she gently walks away
Where is the tender? The taker of souls? The tiller of the soil
That I will become?
Vacant. Still. And yet so joyful
Mute. Graceful to see. Not one dance out of time.
A serpent. A mirror. She quietly smiles at both
While I feel the seeds. The dew. And tiller's plow.
More by this Author
(Poem) about a rare, honest man.
I didn't attend this event.
Not many fans of early television ever admit to not liking the "Andy Griffith Show." But me? I have endured a few casting miscues for as long as I can.