October 9 by The Running Son
|░color me needing░|
Lord, chisel me Grecian, or at least
cut me clean, like Atlas.
Through this sweet mist, as if
through a translucent sea, I sift
for elusivity, a tendency toward desire,
an arrow always seeking, lift the sheet
and find me secretly hiding vials
of milky melancholy, quiet
as a scientist on the brink, DNA strings
of pure unprocessed need
represent a million fertilized possibilities
for future breeding.
A feature on a face fashioned and pasted
in a strange position. A greatness
misplaced, an X-factor misapplied,
an equation missing.
A fifth of whiskey breathy
in ears desperate not to hear,
craving some other place, far past the gates
where lush grass invigorates,
where satisfied sighs fall and enliven,
where I’m nine feet tall, on the lookout
for my pentekonter and its cargo:
gods that boost men up over promising walls.
by Jim Aldrich (:
Written for We Drink Because We Are Poets Monday Poetry Prompt 24: Color Blind
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.