reflection is still,
the trees they are still
in this suspended moment,
stretching
like a rubber band
a life from morning to morning
lived and died
a boy no more than ten
(the director specified)
enters stage centre
more of an unwilling appearance,
he turns as if to say
this is for you sister,
a skipping stone he does let fly
from his bathed hands
to shatter all expectation
of a simple imitation
my name shall be indescribable
and I shall be boy
in the window of a rippling memory
the edges masked by uncertanties
a future self contradicts
linear time, as he whispers
a warning there a nagging truth here
become that man my love
dissapoint your fathers
lay six feet under before your mother
my name shall be indescribable
and I shall be boy
1 month ago
1 comment:
I found your blog on Faun. What an evocative poem. Sly and brave, yet thin like a newborn just standing.
"This is for you, sister," say's together, to me, but only when it matters. Your poem seems a place of danger, but for all I know, its a casting scene, not a decalaration of independence. Thanks.
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