The VisitantA Poem by PerditionThe visitant arrives, It is the
bare, gaunt consciousness of the fragile a.m. Holds
your hand and begs of you to pray To
petition at doors and for a gentle mutation But the
visitation is not a friend, Not a
lover, nor a far off peace from the womb It is the
first voice of death- Your lips in quivering to heaven tells everything Her legs, Accepting
you now like a war-call itself Never
enough limbs, Your side
begins to bark in routine intervals, The words
forget themselves as giants will, in unfamiliar stars- You are bleeding from the rack of your strain, but still You
continue… Still you
drum on in the trace of God, You force
the images, despite their unsavory nest Written
on your wall is a warning of every mad day’s attempt The world
was merely A spin
round carousel, A horseman’s
foolish delight And you
remember now a child that you beat in hunger as a child yourself This, when
you too were the devil’s feast And tears
fall at your reckoning, one as the ocean patterns through hand, You
finally declare, “It is too late for visitors! Too late
this hour for need… And the dreams are gone so there is nothing
left you see!” "But
perhaps I might join in your naked arena Out on
the clouds where all is shattered Out in
the rain that breeds your flattery" And you
are aware it will not drown you It will
not claim the charm of you today- And the
sleep you may find there Is ultimately
the grace of earth and bone. Be well, Be awake As the
moveable feast Eat, and
when morning arrives Be of
hunger again, This terror
is only a visitor And is
gone with all your belongings, In the
morning your dream will return And the
sheets, They will again
be covered in a dark rude blood. © 2017 PerditionReviews
|
Stats
158 Views
1 Review Added on March 21, 2017 Last Updated on March 22, 2017 |