Pretending Metropolis 2

Fog settles on a pretending metropolis
as dawn caresses the sky,
my eyes open.
You are so near,
but feel so far;
I cannot believe I deserve you.

Rain gathers in my mind,
while you whisper glimmers of sunlight.
Pulling me in with your warmth,
drying the droplets from my face,
pleading for acceptance with your embrace.

Bright affection glints off puddled highways
calming my disquieted mind,
if only for a moment.
I close my eyes,
breath you in;
Who knows what one deserves anyway?

Advertisements

Pretending Metropolis – Draft 1

Fog settles on a pretending metropolis
as dawn caresses the sky,
my eyes open.
You are so near,
but feel so far,
for I cannot believe I deserve you.

Rain gathers in my mind,
while you whisper glimmers of sunlight.
Pulling me in with your warmth,
drying the droplets from my face,
pleading for acceptance with your embrace.

You are essentials elements,
proteins and nucleic acids,
woven into the fabric of my life.

Miss Jean Louis’ Autobiography Lecture Series Part Eleven

As every student in this hall ought to have realized by now, Miss Jean Louis has written for herself perhaps the richest and most densely symbolic autobiography ever contained in a scant twenty-seven words. Our focus today, in our ongoing exegetical lecture series, is word eleven – “in”.

Having established in previous weeks the significance of her beginning her tale with her current regal status and then so quickly, by word seven in fact, undercutting her birthright with the word “hut”, while at the same time alluding to other ignoble births (not the least of which would be Jesus of Nazareth in a manger), we now turn to the flooring, or rather lack thereof, of that very same obstetric hut.

But I get ahead of myself. First we must address the preposition by which we are to relate to that “dirt” or, indeed, “the dirt”, lest we forsake the definite article when Miss Jean Louis so clearly has not! More on that next week, of course.

It is first worth noting what “in” is not. It is not “on” nor “atop” nor “above” nor “into” nor “from” nor “upon” nor “around” nor “near” nor “surrounded by” nor “amidst” nor “beneath” nor “beside” nor “outside” nor “over” nor “through” nor even “to”. “In” may even suggest “of” but as an apostle once made clear, the distinction between being in the world but not of the world (John 17:14-15), or perhaps how Oscar Wilde once phrased it, “we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars” (Lady Windermere’s Fan, Act III), can prescribe a fundamental difference of purpose to one’s being. With “in”, Miss Jean Louis refuses to be bound by her chthonic origins; she is, instead, looking resolutely at the stars.

Digest that, students, as you take a brief recess, and appreciate what prescience and inspiration must have directed that diction. When you return, we shall go deeper, looking at each individual letter and their related symbologies.

Nothing But the Waiting – II

Dusk’s fog descends upon me.
Tense and weak, wetness settles into
my office weary muscles.
Skipping over grey hay’s needles,
deaf to coin rattles and cat calls,
sighing into a numbing release.

My eyes close;
stopping and starting,
the hum of the train
and the chatter of passers by
passes by me.
Imagining your warm,
broad,
arms,
engulfing my deadened body.
I awaken with the steam
rising inside of my silenced senses.

Blood quickening,
I become vital again,
submerged
in push and pull of your absence…

Till at last I settle on waiting,
because that’s all there really is to do.

Nothing But The Waiting

Dusk’s fog descends upon me.
Tense and weak, wetness settles into
my office weary muscles.
Skipping over grey hay’s needles,
deaf to coin rattles and cat calls,
sighing into a numbing release.

Closing my eyes,
stopping and starting,
the hum of the train
and the chatter of passers by
passes by me.
I imagine your warm,
broad,
arms,
engulfing my deadened body.
I awaken with the steam
rising inside of my silenced senses.

Blood quickening,
I become vital again,
submerged in memories of you.
“Don’t linger,” I caution myself.
“Fall harder,” I hum back.

Till at last I settle on waiting,
because that’s all there really is to do.

Confessions In The Dark – II

Pale night caresses your features,
bending softly around the frame
of your raven plumage —
an evolutionary holdover that beckons
me in the dark.
Lost in a primal blue ocean,
I know not how I got here.

Our wills intertwine and pull upon each other.
Your body knows how to envelop mine.

And with trembling hands and a
sideways smile, I confess a silently
that I cannot imagine ever wanting to leave.

Confessions in the Dark

Pale night caresses your features
bending softly around the frame
of  your feathering plumage —
an evolutionary hold over that beckons
me in the dark.

Our wills intertwine and pull upon each other.
Lost in a primal blue ocean,
I know not how I got here.

And with trembling hands and a
sideways smile, I confess quietly
that I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave.