Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Pasture.

And in all those words
a picture is painted
of you
with lies for teeth
and violence for eyes
and you are sharp
angled
and black
and there is no escape
from art
or poetry
no retort
no explanation
only
nods and knowing
and her paint brush
only paints
what she believes
to be true

and that's not you.

And man -
remember?

How your words were once
as strong
as stone, as confident
as a stallion in spring
and just as wild
just as dangerous
where as now
you are a gelding
muted and grey
and old
chewing over chaffed and lonesome dreams
and wondering why
and how
your manhood was lost
when you thought
you were so young and free
and right
and every dawn was a kiss
a promise
that this day
you could exhale
this day
was the breath of bliss
which you would ride
into tomorrow.

********

And it's fucking getting old
being yourself
so you just
try
like Hell
to like it.

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