Tell Me What You Think of it please?
In a Thousand
I do not wish to melt
Into another’s life, splayed into millions,
Scrambled among the dull greys and beiges
Of the shameful tapestry, woven mindlessly
With the threads of their
Quaint mushy brains.
I do not desire to disappear into the mash
Of the helpers the doers the workers,
Where few come to aid, less leave comfort,
And minimal breathe real peace.
I shall not become with the them, for;
To become I raced and to breathe I yelled
And to dream I formed lives in clay
To be remolded again and again and again
And again until Pompeii rose from its ashes
To kiss the new sun, the aqueducts roaring
Galaxies and fantasies into my infantile brain.
I refute the probable inexplicable propensity
Of my existence to fade to the background
Of the frescoes, the white sliver among
The green of the grass, useful in that of
Addition, but utterly, absolutely
Unnoticed and distasteful in the expanse
Of the unearthed, broken
Home.
O! To become of proportion and note.
Is it too much to ask- No, wish; No,
Become! – To be the curve
Of that woman’s heaving bare breast,
Or a swords point of death which had
Slayed seething hearts in a dozen, the glint
From the sun the artist relished in placing
On the doomed wall, the piece named with a sound
Remembered by a seeker or lost
As that of chief legend, indescribably precious.
O! To wear a cape of wonder, perhaps that
Of velvet and tales, so the potential of a child
Who dreams the same as I may stumble across
The jewel of possibility I clutch to my bosom:
A dream. My dream!
I do admit to holding a certain belligerent disrespect
For the blatancy of others… Desires. Perhaps because
Mine has burnt a star into that tapestry,
Punched the spidering crack across the frescoes,
The telling of a thousand’s old disaster, the temper
Of giants; It is a chance of mine
To be understood as that of the smallest point
Of notable desire, so
In a thousand from now to be:
Pray do I, to not have melted, but instead
To have sent forth in a thousand
My dream, enduring and true as the stones
Of the rubble, the stitches of thicker thread,
Noted.
Yes, O! Yes: My dream.
