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the bed is a bowl
from which I gaze up and out of above the stars pour themselves out across the darkness they cease to speak and lack the messages I've longed waited for.... I climb from the bowl and listen for any word they may have but its lost in the howling of the East Wind I long to understand this language is it a collection of neurons, impulses could some great spirit send e-mnails from the sky into my head what's the real and what's the divide what's the reality are the real more like the dead have I been watched over do they speak into the cochlea winding road about into my heart do they breathe into my mouth so they can reach my heart the bed has stirred the curtains flushed the door creaks a silent entrant the feathers of a touch the ghost of a leaning smile stay awhile for I'm lonely at night breathing stops and I move to make it rise and fall again what troubles sleep what makes the bed the place to be when I've grown old and I lean into the each day as it releases me into its end where did I go where do they go where am I now this middle place between the slipping of the light I long for more I long for length I long for what never was and for all there is I long to be small I long to be held I long for those in pain and gone and yet I'm glad I've still more time to live. LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM 3:32 PM PACIFIC STANDARD TIME NOVEMBER 6, 2021 TIME AND DATE STAMPED AND ALSO FOR THIS WRITER/POET MELISSA A. HOWELLS AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED AND REGISTERED SITE TITLE: MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD MAYBE I KEEP REVISTING CERTAIN IDEAS AND THEMES...BUT THEY PERSISTENTLY ARISE AGAIN AND AGAIN..AND SO I'LL CONTINUE TO WRITE ABOUT THEM WRITING IS A PLACE , A HOME, WHERE YOU ARE FREE TO BE WHO YOU ARE AND YOU HAVE YOUR OWN LANGUAGE, ONE WHICH IS DIPPED IN THE INK OF YOUR THOUGHTS AND HEART. Vote for this poem |
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