In the wake of memories.

Theres a dozen blankets bunched up inside a closet
Neither folded, or shaken, probably dusty,
they're holding on to a families smell.

A few hundred acres away though a plot of land bunches of pines and oaks gather for the fourth of the month.
A few hundred people are swatting mosquitos taking their blood
Gunpowder and sulfur hold and disperse different sorts of families.
The kind written in veiny ink,
as to hold soullessly
and to bleed it the same.

A holy land is considered in the distance.
Unfractionable imagination looms as a void between the stars or the sun.
Or perhaps its truth.

I saw them showing a blind veteran a flag.
I wonder if his hands can make it out.

It eventually was time for the explosions,
But its starting to lighting
I wonder if he'll tell the difference.

I heard you're coming back to life tonight.
So while we tie up on the lake,
I'll sneak over he boats edge to catch your ghost
in the wake of the moon,
Don't worry,
your son is asleep.

I'll dry it off with a holy blanket.
The one your dried me off with,
the one with loose ends.
That way, if you decided you wanted to go back because the moon kept your face,
I could hang on to one and watch you unravel it all the way back to wherever you go.

I guess I'd kill all our memories to have you still here, right now, with me.

But instead i burn my end of rolled tobacco,
and I watch as you roll out my mouth
magically.

Reviews

[Steven Cetta]

I like it but it needs to be polished a bit. It does not flow very well.

[dukovan]

your moms t*****s

[Keith LaFountaine]

Great imagery in this. I think some lines could be worked on, especially the longer ones, so that the poem flows better, but otherwise you've done some great writing! Keep it up.