POEM: untitled #7

(Created 5 May 1995 - Edited 28 Aug 2005)

standing on a step again,
                        wondering-
if this is the mark,
                        in the depths below,
at a vantage--
                     point-

writing here,
again-                  as i do,
at this table,
                    fingers in motion

thoughts and fingers begin to race

                  again...

days lived,
                ripping apart my skin
eyes
        and soul--
                    the way i do.

moments in time,
                    in life,
                    in here i see

i see - i see...

                    something there-

and in a moment
                    entwined

lovers hearts crying out for each other
but holding each at
                            a distance.

fiddling in the only place
                    we didn't want to be...
            we didn't want-
                                to be.

things seem grey to me now,
as hearts now beat,
                    beat
                            in two places
            in two places.
            
without  a question
                        without the real-

now,
        again here i remember that-
        
                        the black robe,
                        surrounds her in the wings
                        those cast iron wings,
                        that have visited me
    soon to envelope...

do not welcome this-
                        or do i?

but as i write here at my desk,

my mind wonders         to her,

    with    whom is she
    where   she may be
    what    she may be doing right now--
    
    now     when the wings envelop...
    again   like cast iron

                        cast iron
                        cast in this way of life,

by decision             left traveling down
                        the only road left

and as the road might dry           as their will... will.

               be here-

thoughts in motion,
                         motions that form this black robe
                         the black robe to climb into as
                         fingers grow dry and brittle,
                         killing the this soul slowly.

                                                                   - klaus andrews