Hypothetically Speaking
This is dedicated to a few people who've been kind yet persistent about showing me What Matters. In life. In these skin schools. Still, nothing in this post reflects that collective wisdom because, well, I am not claiming to be absorbent, merely that I notice. I have not actually met a couple of these inspiring people. In that way, they're heroes without trying. One or two might be surprised that they're seek as such.
A couple of them are real life friends who also happen to be both heroic and humble. They didn't set out to be any such thing. They definitely carve out their own paths. I'm unaware of anyone who's gone before them in their particular arenas of existence, but they seem to be guided nonetheless: Mysteries accompany heroism, if not outright confusion.
But that's another bad poem altogether.
Hypothetically Speaking
If you've had love and gasp
at the space where it used to be,
You are still inhabited by it.
Or was it the thrown-away kind,
lost on some highway
in a reckless, lightning fast purge?
Did your love steal away
into someone else's night,
only to taunt from whispering corridors?
The graveyards of the one-sided kind
scatter the world; lost mounds
of betrayal keeping sorrows alive.
Perhaps you had the close to the top,
of the mountain kind: identifiable only
by numbers like some star system.
There is binary love: stacked, shiny
face cards, all hands on decks:
shuffled, cut, dealt predictably.
Warm realms of kept vows
coalesce into myth then oxygen masks drop
down, one less of them than of us...
What then? Who turns blue as the pilot
yields to either a miracle or the stone grip
of broken steel: yanked musical chairs?
Do you keep it close like a pillow,
between you and the hard places
in life; through the constant moving, the
Switching rooms, wheels, keys and
torn paper keeping your place in books
you don't remember beginning,
Ones you can't imagine not finishing?
You could cheat. And ask. How it
all turns out after all... except you know.
There is no new thing under the sun.
That's why prayers of forgetting
thrum in the night air, breaking only
When the hope of a new love is born:
still, sirens sound warnings. We've got a jumper.
And it's such a very long way to fall.
A couple of them are real life friends who also happen to be both heroic and humble. They didn't set out to be any such thing. They definitely carve out their own paths. I'm unaware of anyone who's gone before them in their particular arenas of existence, but they seem to be guided nonetheless: Mysteries accompany heroism, if not outright confusion.
But that's another bad poem altogether.
Hypothetically Speaking
If you've had love and gasp
at the space where it used to be,
You are still inhabited by it.
Or was it the thrown-away kind,
lost on some highway
in a reckless, lightning fast purge?
Did your love steal away
into someone else's night,
only to taunt from whispering corridors?
The graveyards of the one-sided kind
scatter the world; lost mounds
of betrayal keeping sorrows alive.
Perhaps you had the close to the top,
of the mountain kind: identifiable only
by numbers like some star system.
There is binary love: stacked, shiny
face cards, all hands on decks:
shuffled, cut, dealt predictably.
Warm realms of kept vows
coalesce into myth then oxygen masks drop
down, one less of them than of us...
What then? Who turns blue as the pilot
yields to either a miracle or the stone grip
of broken steel: yanked musical chairs?
Do you keep it close like a pillow,
between you and the hard places
in life; through the constant moving, the
Switching rooms, wheels, keys and
torn paper keeping your place in books
you don't remember beginning,
Ones you can't imagine not finishing?
You could cheat. And ask. How it
all turns out after all... except you know.
There is no new thing under the sun.
That's why prayers of forgetting
thrum in the night air, breaking only
When the hope of a new love is born:
still, sirens sound warnings. We've got a jumper.
And it's such a very long way to fall.
posted by Dustin at
8:32 PM 
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