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Sommer Grzech Poem
Grandpas ghost sits at the dusty chair.
He gazes out the stain glass window.
Smoke rolls from his wooden pipe and collects in the sun beams.
He is drawn to a divine moment of a hummingbird as still as rested bones buried in waters beyond the horizon.
He is perched like an owl stitched to a high branch.
His wide eyes see such a tranquility of stillness.
The owls nest is where he dreams of such a scene.
Grandmother sits with closed eyes, the firelight outlining her face.
Her wine glass; slanted towards the floor, is held like a feather in her old hands.
Her heart catches the simple things, the constant motion of humans, bound to the anatomy of the earth.
The quakes and the structure of the water.
She places her fragile body in the calmest of winds and the stillest of seas.
Oh, how the kids with the cocaine veins pumping adrenaline to experience the purity of their own.
Their speediness towards the setting sun is endless and never tiring.
Oh, the kids with heroin hearts, shot up with crystallized eyes only slow and trapped in time towards clarity.
Then there are the ones born from the rising moon, they set clocks in their hearts that tick until the contrast has gone.
Only memories give life to such a dying breed, held true to time and space.
Only emotions give electricity to the numb held true to belief
Copyright © Sommer Grzech | Year Posted 2013
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Details |
Sommer Grzech Poem
Veins strung out like television wires,
I stitch them to my heart in hope that electricity will shock me back to life.
My demons hang in the corners of the dark space where I dream.
They shriek and laugh in my face, my body melts to magma and I set them on fire.
Their soul blooms like a lotus flower towards the universe.
I shrivel in eternal white noise, and burn like dry leaves.
The mind wanders in unseen thoughts that give birth to noises.
They are noises that creep low to the ground and travel through the body.
I let them consume me whole until I am dust.
My eyes are lit pure and are a black hole.
Spirits dance like fire in my eyes and they roll out my head to the floor.
I fall like a thousand feathers in May air.
And dew drops from the angels and clings to my heart.
They will always be there strangling my brain, but I do not have to let them kill me.
Copyright © Sommer Grzech | Year Posted 2014
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