Sunday Blues
Laying in the heaths
of Lazy Sunday’s mood,
swirling in a filtered riptide
I forgot to prune those spoiled stems,
no time for dew.
But at least I’m still trying
to catch some fireflies
along the way.
It’s something out of a nineties movie,
that's what it is:
a lost repository of fanciful ideas,
of love and simpleness
with nowhere to spin.
But it lands and it hits and it has some truth.
We bottle it up
to stick
our straws into
and get drunk off
its frayed scent.
Not timed
not aged
not ripened to feelings,
but to taste,
all the same.
I try to determine what my mind tells me
when I know it’s me
who crouches beneath the shades
of its burning sun.
Can we uncover what we’ve never known
or trace a time we did not spend or trade?
Must we only rely
on blurry fragmentations?
Maybe.
But maybe we can
seek to pick out
some pockets
of joy and bliss
that we might have missed,
hiding in the seams of our hearts.
That joy and that bliss
revives this soil still,
replenishing the mountain air
and nourishing its melodic wind,
and perhaps we can unravel that feeling,
if only we give it the chance,
to bloom.
Drought
I sieve through the remnants of vague noise and reveries
I can manage to keep up with.
With blue tulips paving the harvest,
planted with copper filled bonds
and those insurmountable bars they casually put up.
This acreage’s heart,
unboxed
and laid bare
for anyone to plough into.
To try and mine a currency so bright
it winks and it schemes
through the branches of my trees.
These fields seem endless,
most lay barren
from the wreckage of past drought,
now all dried up and settled in my soul.
It’s alright,
these fields are endless,
they flow
evermore.
You drive and you drive, constantly having to refuel,
never knowing when this old dirt road will end.
Will I meet you at the end of it?
Will you ever know the origins of these plains?
Who knows, I say,
but still,
I’ve been with you the entire way.
