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deepundergroundpoetry.com

For The Birds

When I looked upon the edge of the    
Scrying mirror nestled in the valley,
So perfectly still as not to hide  
The faces of infants all foaming at    
the mouths for something sweet,  
I saw a face between the letters  
Not transcribed for me. A finger to    
The surface settles quiet  
In a billow of smoke that was his  
Undoing; in the guestrooms of the proletariate;    
Depressed in the village brothel,  
“Every one of you a vampire.”  
   
And I stood there a quarter decade.  
   
Through them, I felt the timber  
Clattering against this velvet field,  
And the score’s crescendo,  
And when I fragmented from the pressure,    
And I heard the weight of every uttered word,  
I fell beside you and I smiled  
At the vision of your preeminence,  
A holy light on an empty highway.  
And, when forever closed, you  
Found me smashed beneath the floorboards  
In a masking tape beret  
Squealing, “ I didn’t understand.”  
   
Through them, I viewed a signpost  
Celebrating a destination vacancy.    
And the blackcoat trailed behind  
Praying, “One day soon they’ll find    
you like they often do lovers in the winter;”  
In the frigid silent air.  
Wanton heart, the hundred-thousand bodies,    
huddled fireplaces, husbands, wives;  
Thinking of the children and of  
Cellar secret wine. Two glasses    
in and you’re a virgin,  
Shouting, “people are so boring!”  
   
Through them, I breathed my ending on    
A four-legged pedestal; pounding rain  
Beat the glass behind me  
And saw the black-eyed thing lumbering    
slowly through his maelstrom.  
Educated joy in it.  
Catching wind of the ones who walked out just    
to feel the autumn breeze one last time  
And laughing at the prospect  
Of a future, we’re not present for;    
In an endless pool of darkness  
I will grasp Jesus’ love for me.  
   
Through them, I learned the summer  
Flowers may not whither come the frost.  
And a pockmarked lingerie    
Model might unclasp her scars if    
she so chooses to;  
With words beyond our reason  
Constructed for our discerning ears    
to wonder without the thought,  
That, she is eternal  
And eternal is her image a sculpture    
to remember and regret.  
“...That fame and the fruit tree…”  
   
Through them, I smelled honey; for    
the first time I thought it might be free  
To roam where it desires;  
In the front seat of a barracuda; windswept    
lifestyle; daisy dukes on farm lanes.  
Or huddled in the city  
Under quill pen and oil lamp light in    
an ancient dusted studio office  
A Halloween candy parlor  
Built to blow this place wide open and lay    
upon deaf ears who never linger.  
But that is my freedom.  
   
Through them, I outgrew purpose and fate    
and home and tranquility,  
On the backs of giants  
Who extol my freedom from them but    
cherish the desire of spelunking,  
Through an oft-forgotten network  
Of hollow jack-o-lanterns, half-rotted    
By November’s heavy drawl  
And the pollen covered saplings  
And the lonely haunted snowflakes  
And a faint remembrance,  
When it was all clear.  
   
And through me, I stand up with the familiarity    
of knowledge that it speaks only to bolster me.  
A box fan in the swelter,  
And through me, forever grateful,    
I will weep at the infinite star's mortality  
And I’ll leave this lake forever,  
And my speckled rind will not be    
a shadow of its expressions.  
They’re for the birds.
Written by Vermilion_Apples
Published | Edited 6th Dec 2020
Author's Note
know this is kind of a long one for me. It's a rough draft of the centerpiece of a chapbook I am working on. I would be infinitely appreciative of serious criticism because It's important to me that this piece specifically lands. My feelings will not be hurt.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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