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Spaces I

I am Späces
The poet's muse
And I bring something old 
And something new

The spirit of the word am I 
And I've existed in all places 
And all times
Filling the gaps
The empty spaces in between 
What we say and mean

Recognize my face?
Familiar, the cast of my eye?
Many faces have I
All spaces to fill
And voices too 
The lowest and the high

The light on neck and on my wrist
Like perfume is
Filling up this space
Or maybe a stage light twist
Sweeping these boards
These empty, empty boards
I will more
Filling up this space

All history is a metaphor
Vile word that!
Metaphor
What for?
Yet metaphor it is
An arcing, ranging beam
Upon whose plinth I sit

Poets & priests foretell
The common bond between all things
How the grandest designs are writ
In the meanest things
Patterns repeat, expand, breathe out
Until they are full blown
And then no more
Recede & quite fade into oblivion
Or at least a scale which we note not
And that's my job
The tiniest atom, the galaxy is, if only in model
The same force which makes it and the forest primeval
Makes us too
And therefore is beauty but a reflection of that recognition
A mirror unto ourselves, both fair & fell
Which once was lost

Cities rise and fall, armies amass and disperse
Family fortunes have their uséd patterns too
Each one a metaphor for the other

A children's toy from Russia
Matryosha doll you know so well
Many painted, self-containéd shells
Crack open the large, therein the smaller lies 
Same face, same charming peasant red cheeks
And again & again
There is no heart.
The heart is the pattern itself
And thus are we all but shells

Nay, less than shells, for did you know
Seven times each cell's replaced within your life?
That's seven new bodies -- more or less
More in childhood, fewer with time
The brain less so for thence proceeds the pattern
Each cell has a memory of all its former lives
Tending to which, like a magnet, it will return
Our body's but a beggar's coat
A patchwork hand-me-down
Bound by a silvery thread of life
Or a mere funnel for food and water
Food goes in, serves its seven-year sentence
Released from the cell is expelled
You are pinching earth, water, and a plan
Nothing more

(Continued in Part 2)

Copyright © Kyle Elsbernd | Year Posted 2016

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