Poezja

Single words audible in the din, bear one moment into the next
In cords of slack memories privately threaded or strung or woven,
Colored by the when and the where of the light and hunger and
Aching for warm scents of belonging to the world no matter what
Eyes create in each ten pound universe shackled to this cauldron
Of roiling myths and the fleeting stench of birth, knowing what is
Believed is the only knowing, not the shouts or the calm voice or
Any words to justify the illusion of now-- and seductive eyes and
Countless paintings locked behind them-- keening for the fleshly
Morsels, livid or rotting, to join the damned in joy and hope and
Love-- an endless montage of believing that the mote we live on
Is somehow better for the fist shown to or the back turned to the
Night-- and cleaving to each other and legacy, clutching trinkets,
Grasping for war and faith and treasure to say, I am victorious.