we don new skins and venture into tomorrows
with a vengeance meant for death.
Yet we forget our days of breath and raindrops
and court new eternities
resorting to odd prayers and incantations
like the fodder of old tragedies.
Dare we go
where intellect leaves sense?
Where faith and fantasy eclipse the stars we wish upon?
Dreams die in shallow graves aching towards the surface
a heartbeat away from our sighs.
Each whispered play of words, achingly
drifts upon the breezes, aimlessly.
Who’s to know
where orphans go when left to wander?
Roaming where the dust decays;
blood and soul bereft, and left
with only apparitions counsel?
Drifting until their nuance as a muse,
is finally inhaled as inspiration...
I try to hold the present hostage to my hopes.
To breathe in deeply from the
breezes passing through, remembering these
animas may choose to touch my soul, someday.
I scratch the earth. I plant the seeds
encouraging their reveries.
4.7.11 (rewritten PTG improv poem)