Friday, January 30, 2009

Blind Review Friday

Blind Review Friday.

The author shall remain anonymous (unless they chose to divulge themselves in the comments.)

Those commenting are also welcome to remain anonymous if they wish.

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This weeks submission comes from a Clevelandpoetics - The Blog reader.

On to my Chamber
for Dana

My attention is at a deficit.

Memories of the rapture from affliction
spent in loveless isolation last Christmas
are slowly beginning to fade
and allow me solace.

Memories of a brief snowflake in time.
A time when my foolish belief in love
deceptively descended from above,
proving to be a false Messiah,
delivering to me only
the cancerous pain
of its own repossession.

Since then,
the seasons and I have continued on together,
maturing from the opaque coma white of winter
to the second chance shades of spring green, lavender and pink,
that cultivated a promising chance of atonement and hope
to the most magnificent and brilliant sheens of summer memories
coming only to rest again in the fall
akin to progressing to the end of a life
as hauntingly resonant and artistic in expression
as a Tadashi Asoma print.

Love arrived again this fall,
she selected me from amongst the caffeinated crowd
as the misanthropist I, sat reticent, and unknowing
in the same still fog
that lingered outside
in the fresh October night air
and in recollected childhood memories
of her favorite cartoon.

The planets were aligned
and the paths of two shooting stars
crossed at the intersection of fate
that two destined souls
always collide at.

She blew like fall leaves into my life
like the silent, narcoleptic assassin
who visits me when I am on the brink of unconsciousness,
ready to retire on to my chamber
and let go fully of this world,
but then
the light wispy air touch of her lips
disarms distention from my diaphragm like carbon monoxide
leaving me in a dizzy, breathless, and dreamlike state.

Shortly thereafter,
my eyes open uneasily to the familiar dirty grey sky
that ascends from the ground like phoenix ashes
over the tips of a pine tree lined horizon
of a bedroom window pane
that perfectly frames the new memory
in the photo album of my mind.

I procrastinate the process,
not wanting to leave the warmth and invite
of the bed sheet and blanket womb
and labor to awaken at my own slow pace,
decorated like a general
in a sprinkling hail of silver fairy dust
recently sprinkled upon my head, hands and shoulders
in either my dream or in my death.

I realize then
that perhaps I had temporarily left this plane
and this vision of love
stole the cold vapor breath from my lungs
and placed my heavy frail arm in her hand
after becoming hypnotized by the astral white light of the comets tail
before being forever thrown into an eternal vacuum of nothingness
that I make no thought nor attempt any action to abandon.

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The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau