Posts Tagged ‘past’

“It’s almost impossible to let someone go when you know they’re not in the past; they’re alive, you’re alive, and you’re both living in the same present- just not always in the same place.”- Original

You can’t forget that they’re there.

And Time scrolls on,

motioning not to its Underlings

(who heavily preoccupy themselves

with Trivial things).

Where would I rather be?

There are people here

who do not know me.

I know only their blood, not

their histories.

They talk of people I know,

the gray lady who died, my cousins;

they peruse photographs,

sorting and arranging landscapes.

I find it all uninteresting.

I distance myself–

a pale carp apart from these squawking birds.

As intriguing as

blue glass glaciers in Canada

and enormous fallen trees in California are

I’d rather their mysteries be saved for me,

for when I am old enough to journey

and pull the curtain of fog away

for even a small glimpse

at the present,

but these people are stuck

in the past.

I walk steadily onward, remembering you.

Do not believe, in any instant, that I could forget you.

You are the hands which formed part of me;

you set my stones and built me, guided my hands

and taught me how to paint.

It has taken me until now to realize

that I etched those marks, dark as bruises, under your eyes.

I was the one that made you cry.

I dried you out and gave you nothing,

and for that I am sorry.

But my apology, I must acknowledge, is too late.

Sadly, I have written songs and poems in your honor.

I beg you now to forgive me for whatever poison writhes in them,

those snares have been forged but have yet to see daylight.

For now, I walk the city’s edge,

minding the tide where waves unfold

like wrinkles pressed out of velvet sheets.

You mind the bitter air in the heart of the city.

We’ll stay at these poles.

I may never know whether you read this.

I leave you, ask you to get plenty sleep,

and smile recalling your face during the conversations we had.

We are still teeth in the same mouth,

but we are not close enough to touch each other.

Holy, or demonic,

there is something–

unnerving

about this era

where we scrawl with plastics

and come out of hospitals

either black or white.

We fumble with strands of time,

we press our noses to glass,

we walk and take nothing in,

or ride in stomachs of beasts of our own designs.

But where are we going?

Do we go to the great chapel,

see brown and gray stone marvels,

or do we put ourselves behind

unfeeling, glass, metal, and rubber?

Do we fly?

Are we imprisoned in boxes

before our eyes?

Do we ask why?

Are we all ill or in pain

and do not realize?

We take only one side.

Holy or demonic–

those must be our intentions

as we come,

black or white,

sanitized

or dead,

out of hospitals.