softlyPoet

We are the sadly sleeping
dreamers of night,
the loving motifs
and the living personas
of an age gone by,
kingdoms fallen
and submarines long sunk.
Just like me and the other
boys lost in the forest,
we will find our paths,
and dream another night,
and dream another dream.

The power’s out now.
The clocks would read 1, or 2.
It’s morning though
the darkness disagrees
and a cloud drifts by
in the wind.

Write drink,

write drink,

write drink.

I wanted to ask her a lot
of questions. I was
confused those days. Sure,
i had my ups
my downs, my in betweens,
I spent a lot of gray days watching rain fall,
but I wasn’t optimistic enough
to think of it like a waterfall which
is beautiful
and pure
and never stops.

She whispered in my ear in the darkness.
That was morning
like night
but time had passed.
It was not young love
it was not all tings
or even beautiful
but it was just dark,
like time had passed,
and it had.

We are all lost dogs
on city streets
following the funny
smells of night time.

I stepped on a dead
bird coming here which
now makes it very dead.

It was by the arts
or the sciences building
but I can’t decide which
would be more vulgar.
The sky was clear and it was Fall then
and I wasn’t too sentimental
because it was a nice day
and it was, after all,
the city.

You whispered to me in the Spring
when flowers bloomed under blood red skies.
I slip into that memory often.
I smell the grass
and feel it like I gripped it too tightly
that twilight afternoon into dusk into
romanceless stars. A
blood red sky with whispers
like promises
that were already broken.

“20 Minutes To Stamford”
and the train goes
“tonk ka tonk”
and we pass by Christmas lights
and their reflections in the snow

I’ve got no change
to spare
and no I’ve got
no room for doubts
not where I want to be
and no
I’m not right and I’m just feeling lost.