May 26 by The Running Son
I need to write a poem for you.
I dunno where to even start.
My heart, the way I knew it,
that’s long changed, I can explain
but I’d rather not go through it.
But for you, I would.
I would do acts described in magick books.
Make paths, where no man ever could.
No masks, no broken flasks,
no rooms of old wood or port-hole pasts
I write in, could fight waves crashing,
or shape me through day-rocking dreams
the way you do.
and I crash so softly I can hardly believe.
By you, no poem will do.
No one stream
will wash a pathway
of brush or paint–
establish boat-life truth
from ink portholes, or leave signs
like the notes I cant help but leave you.
of the sort that sears
up and down the spine
and erupts in my mind
like an old wound
claiming a birthright, well timed.
And I fucking lose my mind.
Poems are hopes
that a tight-beamed and lightly ported glimpse
will be received, thought through,
believed, maybe shouted about
inside believers of words,
of signing the right signature
on the right dream,
and looking through the right portal
for the right ring.
Writing seems normal;
a rounded way to sing a tune best heard
in complex keys,
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.
blu butterflies live freee.