I will not tell you of my dreams.
Nor speak of murder in the air,
the blackened beaks or flutter of wings
that bears the flesh of rotted things,
and pierces hearts with One-Eyed stares
As all the colors on our page
now bleed to nothing, the palette bare.
For all we have are faded dreams
frayed and tattered, weathered with age.
Where spirit dwells in a filth ridden cage,
as mournful phantoms rattle bars
and cling to hope
of healing scars...
One step, two step, don't let go!
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle fat
tell us where our truth is at!
I saw a starling perched upon a peg,
sitting awkward, balanced on one leg,
to screech in anger at the wren
and wonder at a patient finch
that waits it's turn
for seeds of sin...
To tell us where our truth begins--
to plummet down the rabbit hole
without dress or umbrella.
To ponder how it takes its toll
and leaves a mind bereft of thoughts
of life.
As if all we've ever known is strife...
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle fat
tell us where our truth is at!
There sat a man along the road--
unclean and haggard along the road--
His unsteady hand had forged a sign.
"Anything helps the hunger subside."
So we gifted him an apple...
With a careful eye he spotted a bruise--
A blemished fruit he could not use
and tossed the food to pavement.
To starve to death
he serves as muse…
For a single flaw we choose to lose?
There is no dream unless we choose
to look beyond a simple bruise.
The black and blue of tender skin,
the healing process soon begins,
and sorrow fades as colors lean
toward memories
that linger near the surface.
Where bruised skies lead to brighter days
and apples find no rest on concrete.
Where a mother's voice can lead the way
to where dream and reality meet.
Hold tight, Billy, you needn't fear.
Mommy won't let you fall...
As Mr. Phillips cradles the memory,
where dreams collapse and nightmare sings,
and one wonders where the fingers went.
As murder flies on blackened wings
that bears the flesh of rotting things...
As if all we've ever known is strife...
There is no wound a heart can't bear
with proper preservation.
And yet we search for seeds of sin
in quiet desperation...
And where the dream is meant to lead
hold tight to imagination!
Fiddle, fiddle, fiddle, fat
Tell us where our truth is at.
The ebon cat and midnight crow that meet
where battle ebbs and bends along a lonely street.
To follow the path of fallen stars
that leads a mind to ponder
the One Eyed Crow that bares the scar
of a black cat's ear now lost.
I wonder which would count as more--
the loss of eye or ear half torn--
or missing fingers in a foreign land.
Where jagged scars betray the silence
and lifelong aches in a mangled hand
cradle a lurking nightmare
that leads to thoughts
of brighter days
Where everything will be OK
Someday...
Still, I will not tell you of my dreams.
Nor truths between our fact and fiction.
As all reality the eyes won’t see
now come together
in quiet desperation…
Copyright © 2021 by Keith E. Sparks Jr.
Excerpt from the upcoming "The Wandering Cognitive."
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