Der Himmel: a ballad

Another riddle about things and people and places and little games I play with myself in an attempt to riddle the world. I don't feel like I need to explain it all too much.

Tomorrow I shall meet with Monday, a frightful

Sham of a person. 8AM frightens me, gauzes 

My slander. My slender courage meets with the hour 

To hear, and you. And you. 

Tomorrow is you; and the day after that,

And on. I am a submissive crescent of a person

In your light. Your knuckles shake with

The job, white ink against your jaw alteration. 

You begin; the throat of a nightingale hardens

In your moonbeam. You bounce with the ash, fast,

And free. And gone. I am still. The human

In me waits. The thunder in me rushes off

To be as you be. And you are shocked,

And rightfully so. Little pupil, you say,

Get back to there, and your motion

Hazards a notion that makes me weep.

Little master, I respond, little bud of darling,

Daring majestic, I have words;

Pluck them from me like pure, pear them from

My little knuckles like a kneading in your acid

Eyes. I am letters at first as you suckle at them --

Gasping, grappling, a state of apologetic symphonies that

Cry for you in their sleep. Then I am words, whimpering,

Whimsical, and the chord of them strikes you across

Your collar-boned roar and makes you look as though

You wish you hadn't. Little man, I say, little may,

My words are yours. To submit, to succumb, 

Submissive when you lighten, you lightening bird. 

My iron throne of fleeced words of childish

Vowels of whimpers of races of pulse of

Denotation of acoustic breath reaches across you in 

Der Himmel and I graze across you like a map compass

And you glare, you horrid thing, as I lay my words

Out across your bow and propose movement,

Calling take me to the wind and watching your zealous 

Patch call ownership to the word. 

I stone across the ink in my cotton breeze, wordless

And listening to you rumble my psalm like a grumble bumble

On a Sunday that it sorry it ever happened and a child that 

Was never taught the road-compass of the human spine. 

Author's Note

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