FallenA Poem by The Lonestar
"In those eternal moments of which time loses all corporeality But maintains the wicked sharpness of its canines You can only reach out with your mind and obliterated heart"
I know now how Monsieur Dumpty felt
As he lay upon the cobblestones
Watching his very essence flow from his wounds
And the golden treasure within was gobbled hungrily up
By the ravenous earth as it slid through the gaps between each stone.
He watched with flickering vision as his soul departed
And his mind and body were left, shattered, behind
Feeling the emptiness within him grow until it was larger
Than the emptiness of the pregnant pause between the moments in which
A wife says to her husband, “I am with child,”
And the husband replies, “It is not mine.”
In those eternal moments of which time loses all corporeality
But maintains the wicked sharpness of its canines
You can only reach out with your mind and obliterated heart
For your limbs move too slowly for you to catch the remnants
Of the only essential part of you
Still golden and shining
But fleeing the tarnish
Another’s viscous touch can bring
When they forget the precious nature
Of a fragile ego and delicate suspension
That must remain balanced within you
And handle you as though you were made
Of inferior materials.
Perhaps the remnants of my soul
Will be made into an omelet
Or folded into bread for the masses
Or whipped for a sweet treat for those
Who have left me, both voluntarily and
While weeping with the loss
Seeping a little of their own souls
Into the cobblestones
Where my own covers the avenue
In tacky golden blood.
Did that merry old egghead wish for Death
To come and collect him, or for one of the King’s
Men, or perhaps a horse, to place coins on his eyes
For the Boatman, so that, with a final sigh of relief,
He could remove himself from the stage of the world
And finally take the respite
A life lived at the behest of others’ ill wishes
Had earned him?
Or did he watch in horrified terror
As the hounds that licked up the blood
Of Naboth and Ahab
Cleaned the paving stones
Of his own liquid soul?
As I sit watching the gray creep through the russet,
The dark circles deepen,
The teeth grow long and yellow,
The tremble in my hands,
The words that come unbidden in lieu
Of the ones my mind shouts,
I wonder what dogs have lapped up my own soul.
Has the biggest bellyful of
Whose muzzle is still crusted
With its meal made of my essence?
As I watch my own love
Fight a world that is losing color
To the dreary gray
I wonder to myself:
Have I made a meal of her soul as so many others have of mine?
Is my belly distended from the engorgement of feasting from her own fall?
If my muzzle bears the signs of such a gluttonous action
Let my own run out
And let the horses and men
Mend my body
And let me live
© 2011 The Lonestar
Shelved in 2 LibrariesAdded on March 21, 2011
Last Updated on March 21, 2011
About"I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world." --Walt Whitman ------------------------------------------------------------------------.. more..
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