By Aleksey Calvin
From some city bench I am ashing...
Else I am as ash...
Soon coyly smashing an ember,
Benchforth,
With the side of foot.
Alike a corpse it goes ashways
Pecked at by winds,
Vanished
For good.
Into the gaps between sunrays' chimes
Where
Quicken the miniature mallets' bright CRASH...
A slap and a slash of such shooting stars:
Flash of a sunbunny's concrete-side dash.
We are our own watchsouls,
Lone bodies,
Of dreams our own seers.
From the bench beside me
My neighbour goes,
Across Spring leaves.
Just as sirens ring in the distances -
Mind's oceans -
And the ash disappears...
To the eye
No trace left a'wash.
All is smashed!
As Earth twirls,
Feckless,
And as Earth, Promethean, burns...
I tremble, catching a scent on air.
“For what remains of all these forms?”
Out in some fading Arcady whispers the ghost of Schwartz...
Yet, I personally do carry something
That snuck to stay
In my back pocket.
An old note saved?
Eh, perhaps...
Though, really, who cares what reckless words we once wrote,
And which shallow thoughts we dig up from their graves
N|O|W?!
My thoughts' marathon stalls before a flood
As the world's pallette reverses:
A heart dries sunless
By the deus ex machina
Of a single cloud...
And should most then care of what none can know:
What doth survive in a burning world?
How can one clutch
In a melting hand's palm
Books bound in rain
And a sunweaved soul?
- 2015