Human Wreckage (Part 1)
I can’t walk out on this feeling;
Sharpened wings of a broken Cessna clip
The meanings of my speech and thoughts,
Shearing off jagged chunks of dialectic as it
Ploughs nose-first in a drunken field where
The barley and wheat reeled.
Threshing a painting in my mind done
By some cracked-up renaissance artist.
He took to his bed in order to avoid the
Loss of love and died there alone.
I avert my own gaze from objects of desire,
Potent caskets conveying mushroom folly,
Otherwise depicting love borne to the loveless.
I am fearful of affection, the craving
And where it can lead.
I cling to the visual wreckage of the plane,
The tail stabbing at the very sky that
Threw it to the summer earth in a temper;
Smoke trails drift from busted twin props
Towards a sun they can never reach or embrace.
The crash-site reminds me of me, my
Kamikaze psychology, my gyroscopically inadequate mind-set;
I realise the plane and the pilot became as one,
Guidance system and guide into the ashen testament
Of bitterest stone-ground disaster.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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