|
| |
Thoughts Disperse Like Dandelion Seeds
All that has been, out-grows itself,
becomes monstrous in a mouse hole.
Thoughts pinned to carnival garbs
hang under night’s pitch-dark tent
to chew over minds missing links.
The silence of wordless clowns
mimes the shrill music of bats.
In a dusty room, the hammer-struck face
of a wall clock is a parody of my age
for it is younger than the hands that hung it there.
What great teaching unpacks this emptiness,
is it ancient, or as young
as the sleepless pad of my feet?
Perhaps as in dandelion seeds,
that act of their dispersal
has planted yet more muted revelations.
The dry rustle of mothwings --- a whispering
of some yet other enormity
one emerging now
within a threadbare soul's
deep-set pockets.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
|
|