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A While, After the Fires Died



A While, After the Fires Died
By kayakndan on 03/19/2017
Viewed: 47
Reviews: 1
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A while, after the fires died
And the strike of Primavera rain came for me
long, pelting askew on my scalp
on a cold night in a Paradise,
far from the harsh pyres I left lit
To guide my way home,
I walk on hidden paths left open to see
Ancient and new
eyes shielded from the carnage.

Just walking forward
Stride for stride,
racing with a dashing mind
On slow feet hiding my reasons
in rugged boots of leaden weight
Loose, worn with false Hope
The pull of a new world like red clay
Caked to the tired two souls I carry inside me.
Forcing knees-
scarred from prostrated ground
Finding no deity listening
To push through the muddy soot
Black scabs of ash on jointed skin
that once met itself in the touch of another
Who welcomed that fire, the sweetest heat
So many nights ago
Grinding hips-
surmounting stones unmoved by that inferno-
The kissing offer of a divine suttree not enjoined-
Hips that kindled that fire
Hastened it selfishly, fed it lovingly
Until the blaze caught, flashed, consumed,
and left injuries
No one of pertinence can reach out to mend.

I walk amongst still hills covered in pine dander
As fresh tokens of life drop to thirsty earth
Bark boughs burnt,
lying twisted like Shiloh martyrs
Serenaded by annoyed crows and squirrels
Songbirds and swollen streams
Offering a bewitching song of constancy
these scalded ears cannot yet hum.

I am walking circles through a Dixie wonderlust
Green briars seeking to join me
Looking for something in urgent stream beds
Hands clutching at moistened air and mortal ribs
Where crestfallen idols with cute tits
Once found their Man-god and Man-slave alike
Here, is a new temple over a lost horizon.
The calm intuition of my recent past
Lost in a fool's hacking smoke
Driven mindless by my mind
And the deliciousness of another's.
Sanctity or sanity,
an old me so easy to be
Now cocoons a hesitant stranger
Emergent sojourner wishing upon new stars
A repeating catechism,
browbeaten until sense has been knocked home
soon ending through mirth and consequence
On nights of clarity and forebearing
Of lamentation and absorbtion
On nights that heal and hurt, per whim.

If the burn does cast me stronger
Than I have ever been
To forge steel from the brittle carbon
And the thin iron that was my mettle
The flames will have all been worth it,
And that flickering flame yielding
The hot touch that taught a child
a lesson
will always be remembered.
And I alone will always make it so
As I walk on from here.

"Poems are never finished, merely abandoned." - Percy Bysse Shelley

? By kayakndan On 3/19/2017 4:54:41 PM
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