At times I’d like to rub the sky away,
rearrange the stars and blow the night
to day; but life is not like that,
never was. The mind is a paltry thing,
a simpleton among lost nights
and days; it lies against the Self,
hallucinates this emptiness; makes
believe the world is whole and real.
Strangeness holds us in its spell,
contradiction cracks us till we smile;
the wooden puppet dancing
on the shelf, turns a blank eye
across this transparency; a labored
throng shifts quickly down
the pebbled beach like clowns
into the green-leafed sea, vanishing
into this glass world’s bankruptcy.
I reach out and touch her face,
realize I’ll never know the truth
from space; yield up these traces
under uncertain waves, till spume
laves me from the foaming shoals –
throws me down upon this cracked world,
where sea and sky shed their swag
and lift me into the cold and blue.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.