Winged

Winged

A Poem by Perdition

 

Now my dusty fields feel as empty as God.

Their days grown short and bound to memory, bound to choose some unattended tomb engraved and meaningless. My father in his years walks beside, we of hilltop waving to memories as if neighbors. A field of markers where marks are gardens grown cold. We walk from tree to spring and speak of simple things. I walk to know I am his son. To feel his branches around me, sweetly timed though this be all that straws of men attend. This be all that acres grieve. There are lungs and shoulders here, shrugged and bearing teeth, even before the last sun of summer. We walk to cover well what words cannot, for this l feed on fearsome ways. And as we walk I return in favor,  I feel as he explains… I am that field. I am that God of dust. The Jay with child lying in its tiny soul that has fallen. The ground is all that is left to scatter the final battle of skin. The body when done is such an unbecoming, the roots constructed as if they stem from some tangled Romanov and pearl of time. The crow too ascends our walk as a prayer to our moment, the mountain turning its head aflame, exposed over our verdant steel; eyes set in line and suicidal. The wind has never been so cold, it is as if ivory bursting into frosted blue. Here, it feels like ticking memories. The hands are painting my black back into screams while we walk, considering how wings once lived inside our smiles, how once I could return hastily without death holding everything inside my throat; winter’s hand hinged to a vascularity. Like Solomon I wait for demons. For time to build out into a finer spring. For daggers to do the evil course, the swelling sea at last my hidden rain. I am winged. My father is here beside…but in the last of our rising ash I take his name in death perhaps to fly.


© 2017 Perdition



Author's Note

Perdition
Phew!

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Reviews

Funny thing...i only see one man walking..walking through a pastel painted sidewalk scape...smudged by rain or tears perhaps....then a collapsing shadow of tiny sparrows...free for every direction. Your work takes my soul far out beyond mere vision..it rattles and shakes and screams at death demanding me to live more life...ty.

Posted 11 Months Ago


Perdition

10 Months Ago

Funny thing ...are there more than one that need demand life when life alone demands you? Thanks Q~ .. read more
this one was tough for me to read, memories being this and that. but bloody hell you can write. straight up, bring it on writing with flawless flow. your stuff breathes real life and this is a definitely lived in it poem. WOW, just wow

Posted 1 Year Ago


Perdition

1 Year Ago

Does not seem like a "thank you" moment but more towards a Poet to Poet push. It is a rare gift to f.. read more
' A field of markers where marks are gardens grown cold. We walk from tree to spring and speak of simple things. I walk to know I am his son. To feel his branches around me, sweetly timed though '

This has a distance wrapped around it. Certainly - for me, a flight of presence, memories, inspirations and devotion. The loving bond between family and from whence you came and return. Beautiful, beautiful.

Posted 1 Year Ago


Perdition

1 Year Ago

No words just thanks for seeing it too.
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Ja
Wow, quite the cleansing of the mind
Your fathers death left you behind
And your words soar, as well as sing
So with this writing they do take wing

Thank you kindly for your thoughts


Posted 1 Year Ago


Perdition

1 Year Ago

And for yours...He is alive however just sometimes the ghost is there before the body leaves. Cheers.. read more

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4 Reviews
Added on October 10, 2017
Last Updated on October 10, 2017

Author

Perdition
Perdition

Sometimes, VA



About
Writing is a way for me to transcend the edges around the edges of transcendence; if you catch my drift. Thank you for your wonderful reviews and please forgive me if I sometimes fail to do the same... more..

Writing
Midnight Midnight

A Poem by Perdition