Like a pillar,

standing alone,

in the dead sea,

the dead calm.

 

Like a single man,

leaping from the platform,

in front of the speeding train,

to his untimely death.

 

Like a mystery,

behind eyes of blue,

never seen down the aisle,

forgotten too soon.

 

Like honesty on the bench,

never chosen under the words of God,

only witnessed while listening,

never thinking acoustically.

 

Like taken from his home,

cooked in the raw,

followed down the floors,

grown alive.

 

Like being forced to count ceramic tiles,

sleeping without feathers,

waiting on nails,

while eating sweet bananas.

 

Like telling secrets to the signals,

living for all the wrong reasons,

pretending to love,

never admitting crime.

 

Like the craters on the tongue,

steamed milk below the mother’s breast,

looking at the thin lines,

fearing the new day with a trigger on your lap.

 

Like feeling beneath your soul,

knowing he’ll grow old without you,

punctured daily to measure the system,

she cleaned up the broken glass.

 

 

© 2004 David Greg Harth

04.03.12.24:11:53@296NYC