acraein

Do they, when the sound is thin

Fawn about the chaise in the room?

Words that I couldn’t say,

Oh, I will paint you things.

Today, when my lips were thin,

Palmed my life around, golden hue.

Thread pulled, usual way,

Oh, I’m a saint, a king.

Do I, in retirement

Shuffle toed ‘tween nick naming the commune

And remember every choice I made?

Is remembering the better way?

My age, pulled like a string

Lost body, it’s a sound plucked tune

Meandering across space

Oh, I’m the fish of Kings.

Everyone knows the time’s run out.

Braced knees on the downhill jaunt.

Timid toes too scared to want.

I see the golden scales, the feather.

I know I’m heavier.

Braced claws with teething pain.

Careful canine rupture game.

Climbing ivy, driving posts,

Scuttle scrawling through incense smoke.

Kettle’s hot – embrace it anyways.

Sail’s taut – riding ocean flames.

When I looked up I knew the moon,

Just as if it asked me to.

This simple orb string spun of glass,

The eye inside a photograph.

 
And in my den I dumbly stood,

Smelling every scent from childhood.

The crisp air from a leaf orange pile,

The nectar floods in apple aisles.

 
I looked again and saw the sun,

A symbol for work to be done.

A time to set aside these thoughts,

I’ll burn the wick, I’ll burn it hot.

 
Return to sill after the day,

To find the clouds clouding the way.

A loon I long the moon to see,

The dream I find’s indifferent to me.