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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The keys rattled gently in his pocket. Gradual jumps like the ocean, Peaking with every heart Or every step. The music was in sleep Allowing silence for thought To contemplate on the sun, Of this clean, clear October. He sunk his eyes into the core Of pale and fresh above, Ember, his numbed head rocked from Slow and forced breathing, Suppressing the smell of deep, Deep purity Yet conscious of the high brick wall Where the wind taps Like a faded voice sighs through a lost keyhole. He was greeted distantly By early-anthem families, Walking the dogs Or singing with linked wrists; Sipping at the last, smoked bowls, And the circling of the roads. How they would pass, With a stranger’s recognition And mutter as they retreated; “His hair is thinning! His eyes are fixed, like The bolt in a crossbow. His arms are depleting For slow, heavy breathing... Yet his eyes are fixed.” And sometimes they pass alone; A little too close With their gaze separate. Their tight coats And pocket smokes, While they sway to poisons. How a smile can turn damp At the thought of past brothers. And how a passing car can sigh, With misunderstood pity. The lamplight’s warming, The Gutter dweller’s dawning, The dented camber’s pouring, The rugged throat with it’s sweet inhale For the decisive steps And the vivid gold Yale. Dream in encumbered times, Where the destination is a home to rest. And you walk a shadow amongst the binds, That break the folds of your armoured vest. For my ear is a raven, For my feet are hooves, For I make a thousand strides, Within these tightened shoes, And my arms are not depleting, And my slow and heavy breathing, Is only the product of the season, And will soon falter for my reason, And my hair can never thin, While the lamplights never dim, And my strides will form the door hinge, That stands so high across the fringe, And I find lavender in the bins, While I...search my empty pockets.
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