bloom
why …
why am I here?
your customs are so strange to me -
so … foreign, and bizarre
I see your eyes
they follow me about my life
of following you
and yours …
I know you know I’m learning, absorbing -
basics of your language
dance upon my timid tongue
but with odd steps
with twists and torpid tumbles …
I hear your laughs
when my back is fortuitously turned
and I understand more than I speak -
enough to know the jabs …
are not kind …
enough to know I’m as peculiar to you
as you and yours are to me
and yet …
I must concede
I have not ever beheld such eyes -
the burnish of your irises is so dark that they
appear entirely black
soft-melting within your pupils
and I find myself transfixed -
dreaming to plunge their abyssal ink
losing my thoughts there
like the dark mist of the mountains …
and the sacred sweep of your mouth -
your upper lip’s scalloped crimp
and the gentle-but-plump curves below
create an exquisite shape
that surely was meant for only the most
divine of seraphim …
how can we be so different -
so wholly at odds
and yet still be so compelling?
is it our contrary nature -
our attraction to the strange for the
sake of its strangeness only?
is it our urge to want the things we
know we can never have?
or is a blossom always quite perfect,
no matter what tree it adorns?
oh, why am I here?
there is a purpose in everything
and reason your people found me … in Aokigahara
dangling from a hemlock tree
and babbling nonsense at the moon …
I have no memory before
no sense of who I am or where I came from
I … am alien
as you are alien to me
but you are alien consummation -
a faultless oddity
an anomaly, sublime
and the one perfect blossom
I will learn …
to love.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art borrowed copyright-free and filtered by the author from public domain files at FreePik / Picasa )
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