poetry for the nomadic soul: migration


Here is where I lay my head
Where I have proffered my heart time and again in absolution,
At this very juncture I extracted the juice from an overripe pomegranate
Stripped off a smocked robe devoid of fasteners
Knelt beneath a river of nectar that choked my bloodstream with its acrid sweetness

And shook my fist defiantly in the face I had stroked tenderly mere eons before.

Here is my port of storm
My underground railroad lugging along an oasis of liberation,
Two rivers confluent in the language of ornate limitation
This unmapped cacophony of intersecting lines and concurrent spheres
Littered with etched footprints askew in the breath of sugarspun sand

Mocking my every move with its erudite solidity.

Here I seek a deep shred of nourishment
The unmistakable stench of recombinant DNA wends through my brain,
Taking up residence in caves noiselessly vacated by wanderers besotted and adrift
Awash at sea in the primordial tears of unborn nebulae
Insistently begging to be shown the higher ground

Peering into my eyes and gazing beyond unknown ellipses of abnegation.

Here is a waystation for the soul’s undoing
The familiarity of nowhere grazes dermic underpinnings,
Floods a riparian desert with outpourings of eternity run amok
Every empty vessel is filled to overbrimming
The sublime and sublunary meet in a shuddering of ecstasy

The balm of Melissa no longer soothes.

2 thoughts

  1. And shook my fist defiantly in the face I had stroked tenderly mere eons before.

    Oh, haven’t we all. :)
    Thanks for this. I really enjoyed it.



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