July, 2016: A Poem.

This is not a poem and I am not a poet

I confuse these sunsets, these end of day, dusky grey, sunsets

With the drum and the sum of the sun itself

But sit here at dusk, collecting dust,

And tell yourself gently with your crying might,  that a dying light

Does not a day make

And I am growing tired of these tiring twilights

 

Do not sit back

And wait for spring

I will not flower

I will not flower

I do not exist for you to devour

 

Words are flames

And I want  to be a writer but I am not a fire breather nor fire starter nor fire walker.

I am the ocean

Or the rivers which race towards it

I ride waves and shadow coastlines and surge along a surging course

See my banks burst with rain and remorse

 

I am not the current but I chase it

Not the sun but the reflection which surfs it

Water me water I water your rays

Your wavey days and whispering ways

Set Fire to my fire and all I desire

The time has come

We may never be done

Gazing at the moon

La lune ne grade aucune rancune

Upon mountain tops and sand dunes

In the starry nights of dreamland

La lune la lune

“Soon,” says the moon

In the starry nights of dreamland

 

Something will come of those aching days yet

Those aching

Breaking

Shaking

Days yet

And we sat by your side and promised a promise to never forget

And never regret

 

For the rain must relinquish its rainbow

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