Friday, August 24, 2007

Bits & Pieces

In the forests there are
No demanding passions that leave
One hungry and asking for more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more.
It where the age of darkness and of life,
Knows us better than we know ourselves.
These shadows they remember,
A time when things began and turned them
Into shadows,
And between all of this I roam away from home,
Sweet home,
To make some house my Home.
Sometimes I come to places not mine,
Where biology I can’t recall from Biology classes
Are in a mysterious abundance,
And my lack of knowledge becomes a necessary
Pleasure that was put there
To fortunately confuse me.
Birthday cards I have seen and received and mailed over
But here,
Here there is nothing that is life,
And these trees with their anonymous ages are
Pages in disguise that must be read,
For while their function creeps and breathes and sucks sunlight into
Their leafy leaves,
Often in silence a dropping grass or a hopping grasshopper or some impatient ant
They all come into my sight and all look away
For I’m constantly interrupting their dinner,
But at least I’m not as bad as the rain
That falls from chilling heights and cools their efforts
And washes it away.
There are paths here that have been forgotten by feet,
They are easy to see because they are scars,
Some of them have started to repair themselves and forget the
Trespass of strangers
But some of them still hold dear the
Footprint of some trespasser who came on a strange day wearing
Reebok shoes that had no sole,
And perhaps no soul.
In the evening when crazy stars come out to torture
These woods, those weeds and this library of bacteria,
Something in them and me as well
Knows that this must go on,
Just because it can.

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