Dirty Gerty's Hurdy Gurdy


Only the poem knows what's true

Sunday, August 12, 2012

The Blond Reaper


There is an orange leaf in the sky,
It has uncumbered the sun, for the moment,
Has slain its eyes. So it doesn't will the world
Unto a magnificent prism wheel, it does not
Take the stream and make it flow harder or less,
It could care less; it doesn't even know I see.

But in the center of a forest, deep and verdurous
In dark green and deepest black, my eyes are blindfolded.
I may feel a slight wind, and hear it upon the verdurous eaves,
But the roof is leaking, and its burden makes me bleed.
I rip the blindfold apart. And take a piece, and put it up,
To the blond reaper. But the reaper's eyes will not be slain,
For the cloth can only sustain a haze of muted green.

To go back to deepest black and dark green,
Is the dream I once broke apart. Tore. To the despair
Of my muting heart. But now, I want the orange to blindfold me,
Even in the second that it wills the sky, and stars and supernovas
And black holes to swallow it eternally. I may see, now, all the particular
Colors of a magical prism fall apart into a lifeless stream.
But I do not dream on these waters, because I know the stream is not lifeless.
I evoke roots in the forest's center, and it evokes currents, that take my roots away.

You held my arms; I was but a fragile pup,
You swirled me, in the Sound's warm crystal,
And made a liquid of its source. So even as I stand in the forest,
And see so many bright things amid the black, and feel so much
The withering of a breeze and the drowning of my roots,
And the headlong roof that keeps leaking,
You held me apart. You are the keeper of my heart,
Because you didn't mock the pup's laughter.
You sang with it, sang with me, your devoted child.

And now I hear so many things,
I despair in the rind just to rip my core,
But I want more, oh I do. I want you, and me, back.
To that day, when we swirled in laughter, and everything
Was just a touch. But the circulation will not let this be.
So I cry, and die under the glare of a little orange leaf,
Too important to think it could ever last.

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