Member-only story
POETRY
Sometimes at Night
I write: Free flow Midnightery
A bundle of kerfundery
bruises through my veins
for why were we told perfunctorily
—old beliefs discharged with experienced disdain?
Shall I dispatch my scarred robe of history lived
or instead my entire being — as a perch back to the water
— though, a phoenix bronzed within the soul does give
much to wish, unblemish, let go of, and further ponder.
Then, again, to what dimension do I owe the pleasure
— felt or given or taken or howsoever granted,
stimulating every sense at the tips of the roots, (how to measure)?
Can truth be hidden in lines so simply planted?
Let then the journey take a different tone —
to lend a thought to the all alone
or in whatever way in which we meet:
I bow in reverence to your beliefs.
I know no thing other than what I have seen.
Some things I have learned; some things I have dreamed.
Many years have been spent on the discovery of me
only to find that I was never lost, so found I could not be.
I wasn’t at rock bottom — I was too far from the ground.
Not all flight is grand, ask the angels felled below the sand,
or Icarus…I could wax poetic, but it would melt in my hand.
— agod
