TheFeatheredSleep – A poem rife with changes, reminding me of verse from “Changes”, a song by Phil Ochs:
“Passions will part to a strange melody.
As fires will sometimes burn cold.
Like petals in the wind, we’re puppets to the silver
strings of souls, of changes.”
There was grief in the last time I was myself
long-faced, retroussé nose, thick hair
broad shouldered from swimming away
cutting through water, weightless
not carrying your stare, your aprobation, your disregard
if ignored, let us ignore better, make an art of failure
suck the pipe, squeeze the last drop, inject, pop
those blue pills, as blue as you made me feel
psychiatry says nobody can make you feel anything
you choose
did you choose to feel nothing and by nothing
cause my center to crush softly inward
like the river flowers we press in our books
before you were born
carried over generation from generation
I laid in the grass wondering why
no lover had sought to please me
and the boughs of the trees revealed themselves
as my hand wandered back and forth
drenched in sweat
for who can satisfy a tin box with its lid hammered shut
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