#275
My end is my beginning,
and therefore, always is.
My movement illusion,
the shimmers are the gifts.
My end is my beginning,
it’s always coiled around you,
our differences are mirages
what you see is what you choose.
#276
How the book missed me-
i’m thrown, i don’t know,
i’ve known the text,
i’ve known the name,
but the words they missed me,
found on a rainy night,
they twist while i turn
pages and pages
faster and faster
between each line
i seek all the answers
i know it won’t help,
in the grand scheme of things
but for the moment there’s magick
so long as i read.
#277
The window pane has been
matching my heart,
covered in dirt and debris,
until now, the rains,
under the sky, it’s splattered,
soaking and unclear,
but in the morrow, or soon,
come them clean and crystal,
i’ll see again, i’ll see the Sun,
then the rain, then again.
#278
“For the sake of it”
he constantly reminded
himself, knuckles bluing
with cold, boots filling
with the icy river,
the allusive sleet catching
the light as hope’s leading
forever downstream.
He’d ring the pan and
wiped his forehead.
Then plunged, plunged
the dish deeper down,
and shook again, again.
Searching, searching,
for that precious
Golden Heart
he knew was there.
#279
“Where do you want to go?”
they ask so curious, while
patiently they wait to tell
you of their day dreams
hoping to relate, or even
better, discover a secret
destination, recover someplace
they had overlooked.
Just take me back to the stars,
up or under it’s all the same,
back to where the wind blows
the strongest. That’s where
i feel the most still. Back,
to those arms, the ones that
held love together.
Thanks for joining! Find poems through out the week on my instagram @monsieurwrite
Don’t forget to check out the poems being recited on The Write Stuff podcast!
Take care, call your family, tell them you love them.
wazoo!
-Mr. Write