Sunday, 17 April 2011

when I grow up

When I grow up
I will be a recluse, and a poet
watching the brick wall for indications of
an inner beauty, patterns of sense in red and
brown red, angular spaces of rough grey
will I see faces in the grass and concrete and
faces in the patterns on bathroom floors and
stains in the corridor
fleeting memories of what I can't see
movement in language of
the opening of layered yellow
incantations of life

when I grow up
I will be a habit and an impulse
breathing shallow smoke filled breaths of
cumulative tiredness
watching repeated patterns of
life's patterns refusing to give in to
slowing fingers and strained mind
timed by the length of ash trails
quantified by hurt and joy
wandering grey idol of the lack of being

when I grow up
I will be clear and alive
or I hope I will
or I hope I will

When I grow up
I will have scars on my hands
not from working but from rough prayer
to gods of longevity and ego and faith
digging through sharp, heavy ground to find
sustenance in the foundation of love
refusing to give in to the separations caused by
my lack of extra-dimensional awareness

but I could see it for a little while
please believe that I could see it

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