A Dove is a Glove That I Borrowed to Wear on my Heart
A subject that is broken has been freed -
unleashed:
bones, once stiff and
with a fixed purpose
are now fluid, amphibious.
Free and flowing with
something to prove
like a spore, or
like gleaming star-pollen.
A healed star is
bursting
forever winking rays,
progressive and honest.
A wrist once mercurial (((OOo
gaunt with structure
can cry;
it has a ghost, a
predator to run from,
eternally. It has a scent,
and can be hunted, traced...
chewed upon, its flesh savored.
It falters inevitably,
and tantalizes tears.
It can tickle every·little·one...
Then, in private introspection,
it cracks - suddenly nostalgic,
remembering cold, iron chains and
painless rotations of blissful youth.
A once broken subject dances
dances...!
like grass, tall grass -
like fingers, like memories -
like funerals and open ears -
it screams in grace,
movement.
At times, it is hollow (( · · ) ) )
holy and empty,
a crystal glass of dirty water
painted by stained glass that
tell stories of a good man -
a troubled man -
a sad and contented ghossst;
certain death and sunken
flesh followed him like an
angry crowd...
like a dog drooling with rapacious
hunger, closing in
on its
trembling apparition.
And I
I am a light emitting diode.
I glow like the sun,
sing like the wind,
like love and magic and cry
cry like love and magic
I soar and am nothing,
often, just a seed floating
on broken wings, over
lush landscapes and
aching smiles - I fly.
