Foreigner

2007-12-08T20:25:00.000-08:00

At times I miss the impression left upon time’s tapestry.
The gentle kiss you’ve planted now long past,
Still sweet in memory’s reserve.
But the beat of you is foreign and vast.
We never did coincide—save farcically.
You were my heaven once
When angels deceived.
You were my father once
When no one else relieved.
And how to harness emotions lost?
Or simply misplaced—still confusing—
It’s not that I think ill of you; quite the opposite.
My experience cannot relate to yours,
Our pain cannot coexist.
Yet you pat me on the head and praise when I obey:
affection absent and passion; temperamental.
I tried to please you in every action,
Every fraction of my soul was branded.
I do not doubt your admiration
Or your fondness—these seem true.
With your pity eyes,
you gaze on what you believe verifies, justifies;
releases from guilt.
The fractured vase upon the shelf,
less than half a whole.
Who, then, do you owe?
Your wing once housed my fragile pieces
until uneasiness created more than a
distant eagle’s shadow.
A silent whisper breathed death into us,
The fellowship between black and blacker yet;
Exponents of each other’s core.
At times I miss the laughter in the night,
The communion between two wounded minds
painting the canvas of stars.
Sometimes the tapestry seems bland without
your shadow.

Dis cor dan ce

2007-12-07T12:18:00.000-08:00

I see your amnesia-thick face everywhere—
Swimming in the sea of those I care not to know,
fading between the lines of
Indifference and treacherous monotony.
Your slender, nearly-tender face
So discordant among the rest;
Not yet worn.
Harmony-eyes gazing onward to the horizon
expectedly,
Smiling a naïve yet bright smile—
And why not—?
You know nothing of your audience.
Sublime ignorance—brutal, intolerant
Subterfuge.
An empty host in your printed shirt
and blue jeans, knock-off leather jacket, and
head-bound bandana capping your graying,
balding head like a hippy-crown,
Screaming things that make me aware—
Yet you know nothing
Because you are still sleeping there—
Unawakened to the tragedy of what you’ve forgotten.
You’ve no idea what’s to come—
And that suits you fine.
Perhaps that’s the best way after all:
To be sublimely blind,
Not in need of wisdom;
If only you remembered—
I could join you.

Echoes of a Distant Muse

Foreigner

Dis cor dan ce