Crumbling Crumbledeed
Something else lost today. One thing becomes as important as a breath while the other, once the towering trauma, falls back to the setting and has the import of dry leaf. What power could possibly be left in this thing? Undoubtably, it will arise again, blunt and abrupt, attempting to regain the clutch. At least it will leave the more pressing alone, to me.
As the glances rolled about the colorless gloom,
And shuffling feet covered all parameters of room,
A subtle alert to the pressing time,
Brought all to stillness, and posited rhyme.
A purpose, a thing, call it a name,
Invoke a word by which to tame,
The scene, get a lock on its source,
Change the look with a phrase perforce,
Meanings tossed, tossed, suddenly out,
Comes an ugly parlay, a shifty bout.
The end is a simple word,
And it's hard to understand how you could have
possibly not heard.
On Xmas of 1992 my brother gave me this journal made of recycled paper with a twig pencil. I eventually filled it up sporadically up to 1995. I dug it out, dusted it off, and started looking through it today, May 6th, 2013. I've decided to reproduce the posts online. It's raw and sure to be embarrassing, but I feel enough time has passed that I can distance myself, yet find a very familiar me within these lines and perhaps find the inspiration to take up the pen again..... Thanks, big Bro.
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