To the lost art of story telling

This is a minute.
A minute stolen from a day. 
A minute in which you embrace final things.
The things that come after fables end.

A minute that only keeps count of heartbreaks, like a postmark.
A minute in which you find shadows 
and nihilism finally rattles by your window.

A minute in which you try to open a poem
with your hands. 
Not like unbolting a door. 
Not like believing. 
But gradually like vapor. 

A minute in which history flees at you
with its plumage. 
ridiculed and violated. 
Gasping, panting. 
You fade into it like one does in a fog. 
The way light enters mist. Like sleep. 
You touch and go as one does in a museum. 

You re-invent yourself like the russian dolls. 
Reductio ad absurdum. 
You forget what it is about 
until it is no longer about that minute 
in which the past ran away from you.
You recall absently that It was about a poem
a poem that slowly gathers silence amidst our lives 
and is forever lost between history and hope.

Reviews

[Corset]

all I can say is ...incredible write, just so sadly beautiful in it's death throes stanzas 3-4 sets me on my heels, it's as if you crawled into a devastating moment and brought it alive again.

[Shimmerbliss/CAF]

I am so glad to see you back, and hope you stay and post! That second stanza absolutely spoke to me "A minute that only keeps count of heartbreaks, like a postmark." "nihilism finally rattles by your window."

Then on to opening a poem... "ridiculed and violated" history...and into your final lines. I have and continue to love the sound and feeling in your work. You and it are missed.

[SHEEMA HUQ]

i really like the graduating poignancy of the content which i personally didn't quite relat to the art of storytelling, though it's a good write.

[Tree]

A moving, cerebral piece. Almost every verse telling a story
of its own.

[Ed Hart]

you work from a fresh and abundant palette of images, and a heart that has travailed the ages

[Abhra]

Thanks a bunch Ed. It means a lot to me.