ancientThese are poems I might have written before you were born.
Farsa by spoems, literature
Literature
Farsa
Farsa
St. Ninguno en mi calendario:
solamente un otro día.
Uno mas razón de recordar
tengo nadie
amar.
Sin embargo
como todos los otros:
los días vacíos en mi calendario.
I feel bludgeoned
with the club-end of her wit
and concave from her claw-like excavations.
what had she, in those hands, to carve
a silent message or drawing
in some unused portion of my body,
that only she could see? when I stood before the mirror
I could not discern what
she dismissed as
"simply un-
important."
she must have forced her
dark device
under-
neath an outer shell
and found some pleasant treasure there
where I could see
only
average matter.
what weapon, what sharp reality, she had leveled to employ
was
raised or
outstretched in some female fashion? I search the mirror, again
for evidence of where she might
Equals: there have never been.
Peers: she hasn't any.
She is made: incredible, indelible pieces of
a great machinery.
As a whole, she is immortality; or at least as lasting
as the sun;
long enough for anyone.
As a woman, as a child, as a beggar, as a liar
inflamed, consumed or pacified
there hasn't passed a single treasure
one who has burned brighter
fell farther, flew faster, or caused more damage
or deeper craters when she landed.
And what makes me hold my head so low
is there will never be another.
So, what blind and stupid world would want her?
What seeing world could do without?
She speaks in tides.
Helpless words that curl into
a shelf of thought
then wash onto interpretive shores, leaving
an impression
whose substance soon recoils
into a cleft and mended ocean.
She moves as water.
Impelling wakes betray her being
as I design to see her
she is embodied of indecencies below
resilient surfaces, dark and drowned in fluid
misery, wrought
with sunken lives and lifeless dreams;
shells of their conception.
In hopeless majesty,
masked by thoughtless natures,
clad in coastal lovers,
she smiles at me:
a grain of sand.