And now to the sad child, the sleepless child, the keening fool who sought your answer. The wretched day come down too quick, the plain hands keeping their own counsel. The slow ruminations of the coated tongue when at last the words have failed. The fast to forgiving, the forgotten discourse, strangers all filling your head. In this unholy moment through filtered daylight, the residue of every lesson. Stand up, dull creature and face your maker. Get up, foul fellow and see what you have sown.
The penny taken, the penny placed. The sound of the radio turned off. The music that plays and play only in your head now; your heart too busy with the beating to listen. Hands in pockets you meet the mirror shabby and unshaven. Too close, too close fierce light! Once was and will be shaking hands in the burnished cauldron of your dull eyes. No one to gather in the assault of your arms. No one to make it a minyan.
Whirlwinds reaped and devil’s dues make for plaintive mirrors. It doesn’t get said and it doesn’t get seen, just shoulders to carry contrition. Feet unsteady as any fable, legs that drag and fold. Back wrenched and head on wrong. The offhanded discard and the tumultuous clatter as the husk finds out its fate. Limbs mangled and face to the floor, the once favored plaything once playtime’s done. A bespoke hunger for a begotten god in the desert of this consequence, every prayer ringing hollow.
No comments:
Post a Comment