Transfiguration - March 11, 2008

It's not raining

but your familiarity is

drizzling down

the cold smooth surfaces 

of my skin like

November without an umbrella.

Sensation sparks on sullen statues,

while the copious cadenced chords

lie heavily in the fluidity

of my broken breath and 

unspoken word.

The sun is shining

but your shadow frets relentlessly

upon the ceaseless rotations

of my ragged wretched mind

wrought with the reckless 

worship of child-like adoration.

Those lonely eyes,

like stray cats that wander 

in empty dust-covered cupboards

looking up from places within their withered 

and weathered solitary spirits--

desperate in their desolate demeanor,--

console me.

It's like they're speaking the sighings 

of a shattered serendipitous serenade;

it's like they're feeling the fettered 

and fallible fodder of a fabled faith in goodness.

Responsibilities that are articulated with no drop of eloquence

in the dripping, drenching severity of sarcasm--

all of this nonsense-- 

it's a paltry pretense for this pale prickling pain

peeking through the crackled plaster veneer which 

veils my vitrified veins,

vested with the resonance of 

my patterns for peace.