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When I leave,
it will be the music
left behind, playing
like a paper-veined leaf
that continually turns
with the wind–
and toward the unknown
of three-dimensional souls
I will bare the walk
of memories flashing by,
portraits of who I was:
the small wonders of
kindergarten growth,
to the birthing of my children.
Those goodbyes I left
at the mouths of doors,
I found most difficult
to swallow,
after kissing lips, and
embracing a life away
into the ceaseless hours.
Now I’m chasing hope
and stamping out dreams,
those same demons
that never came
to stabilize my life,
stars that turned to sand,
and sand that turned to stone.
It’s the youth of me that sings
the chords of death that stings,
and though I wish to stay and
see the bright stars fall into
your hands,
dreams of crayons to color
your future aluminous,
when I leave as the silky dust
of moth wings,
struggling in the rain,
softly flapping against the lining
of a coffin.
copyright 2007
Anthony
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