poetomachia

if your cerebral cortex doesn’t pull you through
what are you going, going to do?

i dare to count the things which i’ve forgotten to hold
and too often numbered the calluses of things held
far longer than they should have been, become bold
approach the table of memory and partake what is offered
exercise the laying upon to behave as though lain aside
all this is response neither promotion, reaction

the clouds are buoyant on the horizon
distant, and pure in their ambition
hot water, luxury poured down my throat
dispelling the chill of apathy and despair

what if we stumbled upon a man dying
humbled by his wounds, wordless in awe

leftover expectations
too much expected
enough to share
disappointment to grow

the voices of the hills open up
and the hands of the clouds float above us
your feet tread the canyons
and the sun crowns your brow

dead water glory
when hooking on one’s self
how is it unholy
balanced on ocean shelf

silence is golden
poetry is platinum
dissonance U238
clouds are metallic
peace shattering
good but not safe

when you speak, and i hear
there’s an end, to my fear
with your hand, on my head
i awake, i’m undead
open the door, i enter
into peace, find center
in the vale, clouds asunder
light cracks and, rolls thunder

and if you really want to know
quiet disgrace beneath the skin
i’ve grown so tired of the
asnine consequence regret within
and no, i probably can’t make a difference
i’m not wrong about the twist inside deed
don’t we wish we could meet a kindly old man
who’d bandage our wounds and teach us to read

there is wisdom there
where rain and honey fall
behind the water fall
where wisdom is fair