I Paint The Ships That Sink The Skies

They say I have a name,
That cannot be the name of a man,
But belongs to the vacant space,
Of time dissolved into another time.
Which makes me wonder,
Had I been born in another era,
Would I be just nameless as I,
Or hold the pleasure of echoing,
As a treble in another’s mind.

Long ahead in this great molasses of men,
There shall be no more need of names,
To be any different than salt or soil,
Fundamentals are being torn apart,
And soon shall the truth will rise,
I too am a pawned out god,
I paint the ships that sink the skies.

I see her now,
Through the brows and burrows of desire,
Satin skin; light melted and run through mill,
Spilled hair, like shadow,
Ruby on her lips.
She passes, she passes, untouched,
She passes,
Fairytale on feet.

And I draw her,
With crushed flowers and burnt timber,
Edging towards augury,
About closed windows, barred rooms,
Torn curtains and stripped carpets,
Carved words, and wheeling horizons,
Must love make all things difficult?

I paint the ships that sink the skies,
Sails stretched into stillness,
Like an upturned tide,
To dive deep in the dreary desert,
Which howls upon my life’s shore;
Emasculated vision, of all lost
And never found.

I wait for her upon this journey,
But her muzzled eyes, with their opaque irises,
Are shut to the world,
To me,
So I drop the anchors, right by her feet,
Those naked, oyster, ivory feet,
And glide out to meet the nothingness,
Of which I have heard nothing, nothing at all.

Far from there, the moments seem staged,
Life just a staggered step, towards something greater,
This oblique ocean of ours,
A rolling sphere,
Hurled by a child, from corner to corner,
Rolling, like a flat disk of light.

Years hence pass, years since are passing,
Days diluted, are strained over and over,
Till clarity confirms,
The presence of pinnacle,
In all beings of sentience,
Like you, like me,
Like I and like she.

Oh She, yes, she of the ruby lips,
Have folded, now, under the weight of the world,
Winter took her eyes,
Summer her ears,
The autumn ripened the cast of her mirror,
And spring abandoned her altogether,
But yet, and yet,
Even after all the divine musings,
After all the humane faulting,
I see her as I saw her,
From under the brows and burrows of desire,
Far through the falling age of past,
I see her and I take her,
With me to another era
Of different time,
Where I have a name, and she an identity,
And we both, the same similar quote,
To tame our tombstones.

Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.

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