Friday, November 28, 2014

people . . . .

i watch them go by
in cars and on scooters.


i have no need
of cars and scooters
for i
am not people.

am the chant of faceless lamas
in malodorous monasteries
the music
of smoke rising from
discarded cigarette butts
the howl of a haunted wolf
on a windblown night
the whisper
of an unseen waterfall
in the hills, and at times
the fury of earthquakes
and tornadoes and tidal waves
all combined.

i can never be
i tried once
and the girl in my arms withered
and became
dust, in my embrace.

i picked up the remnants of her bones
and built a room
and hung her skull
on the doorframe.

they pass me by.
they know the story of the skull
on my doorframe.
they read it in my eyes
and recoil.

i cannot blame them.

who would stand
in the path of a volcano ?

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