crunchkin

Waterworld

Though the world keeps turning fast as a whip
My heart slackens and wobbles;
Blood trickles and sifts.
Quickening her pulse
Tsunami recoils
To snap her fist.

Words roll out of the box and onto the floor;
The audience greets their caprice with mirth.

She tufts pillows and smooths wrinkles
On sheets
Something she cannot say, dare not say,
Yet driven to speak, slapping sheets
Dust floats in a fine sea of diamond flickering,
The sunlight touches prismatic torch dips blue beneath
Allegheny
Neither advancing nor receding,
Transverse field flux,
Bucket of wonder.

The writer sweeps the soft dust with his spotted hand
To take up pen and reflect One room, no two, two rooms back.

At two glasses remove, no four,
Cushion to recoil from hustle bustle,
Dank scents, decay,
Rotten everyday artifacts.
Meat of life is dying,
onslaught of day
fading to gray,
nothing to slow the parade.

With cynical laughter, a jangle of his bell
The one with the pen, three steps back.

Her world is wondrous battle;
Yes blood, yes pain,
Silken shining banner,
Thunder in dream,
Silver chalice receiving molten orange fury of battle into liquid kaleidoscope
Swallowing the pieces gives music.

War chant, sabre rattle, steel clanging tympani roll,
One voice, the hero’s cry
Echoes in a sulphur sky.

Ever loyal,
My words scrawl down on dry paper,
Dust marks my fingers,
At a remove from interior pain she cannot speak,
dare not speak,
cushioned,
awake yet dreaming,
her world snaps and pulls and turns,
wind blows up to ruffle her shades.

The poet pulls this dreaming shade aside to withdraw verse.