Winged

5 Dec

I seek you,
through a forest tunnel of bleeding green and winged
wonder I reach and strain to touch the earth and see
my face in the tearing away of sod. To crenellate the
land with my belief of love and honor, to never kill
that I am killing myself, if I should. To see the face
of death follow me ‘round the lazy mess of brush and
the rocks on jagged seas of unsaid truth. To see him
follow and beg me for just a minute of my time though
I have no use for him and will live regardless of his
pleas. I am going to an afraid and peaceful tod, where
I can go under like a rat and watch the gravesites
shiver in the wordless moonlight. The night does
nothing for the cold dreamy face of the moon but set
it to its own beauty.
I’ll abandon all the laws I have known and live
according to what ways I can see. The way the grouse
runs scared across the dewy grass. The way the ferns
lay flat in the wind the way the birds comb their
leafy feathers with their pencil beaks. The way the
earth looks in horror and love and longing at man.
Candle white light stars illuminate my view and I bust
through rituals of new enlightenment, electrifying my
wet skin my muscle and bone so my mind could take a
turn. Basking in muddy schools of sensation and excess
is quite the bane of any man and to remain naive is
more a virtue than crime.
When the earth does start to rumble and tumble and
topple over itself, implode like an egg under the
pressure of the dark vast hollow of space, I will
count my endeavors no less worthy of remembrance than
that of a scientist or that of Mozart….but here, I
start to peel and dry and my words become like grubby
factual wanderings and I am failing. Tied to the
shores of the oceans inside of myself, as you might
never think that I am enough of the poet I believe I can
be, neither might I.

© 2005-2006 brent david fraser, all rights reserved

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