Sunday, July 26, 2009

WATER - Poem 11 September 2007

All I have is a glass of water to keep my mind flowing
To keep the memories pure and hydrated.
I am afraid, however, that it will not be enough –
What will occur when I am standing by the side of a road
Dirty and torn,
Lost and forgetful
To be ignored by people who still breathe?
Shall I turn my thoughts to other matters
Like shopping and killing my only mother
Satisfying a long forgotten myth –
Out with the old, in with the new?
I give myself too much credit, here, now, never
But I am my own worst critic, to deny
What thoughts come before me, to judge
As if I had already died.
Simple, isn’t it
To reveal my own weakness as my own strength?
Wrapped in anguish –
No, perhaps too strong –
Carried across the flat dense world
That so many thought was round
Is my own body, prepared for the Oracle
To kill so that my entrails may be read
And the weather on the 6 o’clock news is proven wrong.
In my time, I was visited by a nymph
Who loved me dearly and yet I killed her tree.
A thought, seasoned well and offered to the whole collective
As proof that I have been working.
My thoughts are no longer my own,
Now poured into a glass of water clear.
I want to finally see why others regard me as me.
Why am I not like everyone else?
This, then, is the problem:
For you see, I am, I want, I, I, I desire. . . nothing.
Too much too soon and yet I am still standing as a whole person
Not yet picked apart by Nevermore birds, a murder of them my own demise
If I can still make it to be 73.
It was 73, was it not?
A cup of tea is now placed at my feet
To compensate for what I am about to lose
And what I am about to gain through pain and needles.
Pins prick my eyes carefully, the murderer knows her job well,
Knowing her victim to be of my stature
And calm composure.
This, then, is the real test: to divide my own self
And conquer each with sword.
Reveling in the blood of my own fallen body, my own enemy
To feel it in drops all over my body
And know that it does make a sound.
A glass of water: not enough
To convey my deepest apologies
That I have sinned, Father, bless my tongue with His host
So that I may live once more
To drink from my glass of dead water.
Purity, denied.

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