This is the turning point
This is the handing off
This is the hardest part
And I’m coming home.
Been, and said
And lifted my head
To reach what couldn’t hurt
And I’ve gone instead.
This is a sounding alarm
This is a messenger
This is a cold escape
And I’m coming home.
But there I was
Lost in my reverie
To the kingdom I’ve built
And I’ve gone home instead.
My human memory lays awake at ungodly hours
Where you never let me know
I’m not going to play the piano any more
My fingers worn, nails are torn
Sending home the witness here
Messenger with another score
To bring at last, to bring me more.
I’m beginning to like the taste of ink on my skin
Bleeding in black
And letters wrinkled symmetrically
With stamps that now stick
To the wings of an unnamed messenger
I have envisioned as Hermes
In a short and stubby auto
With running shoes and arch supports,
And a stripped button up
With wings emblazoned upon the breast-pocket.
Your heart rings on the bars of my faint memory
Tingling windows that never seem to open right
While lights flicker from unknown sources
As if silent messengers in night’s sky.
I touch my lips and think about a sensation
Once so familiar to my heart that it left an ocre mark
And scalded the new moon twice since
Leaving rays of blood light shifting my reminiscence.
I cannot wait here long, for leaves follow my mind
Upon a downward spiral to freshly rooted dirt
Awaiting new seeds of our ancient memory
And lifting lines that varicose their way back to my heart.
