He Knows

A weaver of philosophy.
I'd never break your tangent.
Lepers, we run.
How dare we think in a way that everyone else wishes they could.
How dare we use words with more than one meaning.
More than one pronunciation.
At more than one time.
Could you ever see yourself:
mind melded mirror warped.
My god, how I could taste such reflection
and I weep simply because
my tongue has been scarred.
And I have been burnt by candles
I had thought to be extinguished.
You, I thought I knew you
laughing quietly.
How simply I am living for this:
to knit my brow in solemn contemplation
of the very depth of you.
I'd drown if it were not for your simplicity.
numb I feel you
dry mouthed, I gasp to breathe you
construction eloquent
an accident of skin so divine
Tangled up and tied down.
Pin the butterfly:
and instantly it is un-beautiful.
Afraid of the angel because the unknown
is to be feared
right?
Embrace your demons as they are with you
every damn step of the way
-who's way-
in the way
of what?
A path you have mapped out before the clock struck 11.
Upon this hour you make such haste that I am never tasted.
You are now dropping boulders on butterflies,
and swatting at those demons with a flick of your pinkie.
etiquette
so civilized
utterly superior
right?
Are we losing touch
with the world?
All I need is found within the four walls of a cedar lined coffin
and I am reborn again with animal-like ferocity
with a sound invoked only by you.
Complete a thought only to find it running into yours
and simply indescribable,
even for me, with my infinite volumes of adjectives,
and school house rock songs,
mixing my metaphors with the literal and real.
we are all as phony as they come
And the only thing that keeps the sun rising
is the daily sacrifice of the pacific islanders
(all 250 of them)
and then we drop a nuke and block out the sun
eternal eclipse
how superior
You don't want my sympathy
I don't want your integrity
as virtue isn't nearly all life is
just ask god
oh wait.
feeling complete as you rip me in half
are you dying yet
not afraid
we are all born to die
right?
And yet the angst of many a teenager
has become as stereotyped as the one
sport-car-driving-super-model-dating-new hair-plug-sporting
victim of a predicted mid-life crisis.
We are all climbing a ladder-
who set fire to your rung?
As I hide the tin of gasoline behind my winged back
and wonder where these words come from.
Confessional -confessing all- found within the comfort of these keys
and I speak knowing articulate thought is dead.
~ Sam