living room of plaid
middle class disdain,
a teen lit a candle in despair,
woo'd by a voice in breathy
soprano and mystical chords
of a strumming guitar...
she sung my resonance.
She knew the way down,
the darkened ladder descending
into a marrow bone of waves:
I was a bleacher blond living
in a concentration camp
of mediocre canyons.
I followed the pan flutes
of her voice, the flickering
Glow
of her enlightened chanting.
The soul-less grunts of
yesterday's hero:
of an unmatched cynicism
shook his patriarchal head...
"turn that shit down"
"the dark ladder," I retorted?
A roofer-sider
out of work from falling,
out of work and broken.
He hated her singing.
She warned me it would be like this
as I swayed and swam
in her spirited enchantment ...
the bass of piano chords rowed
me away from my dulling future.
Her neon beckoning...
I knew she was knowing ,
the candle never fickered
as my mom peeked in
from a distant room...
"leave her alone,
she's different"
was all she dared to say.
The only thing I have to give;
"morning in Morgantown"
lulled me to a silent acceptance
as wind rushed around our dirty town.
Now, I hear the voice
graveled in a paved paradise
of fuzzy croon,
warned us not to lull in the
wooing of an unfeeling world...
tears fall as I tune into my fix...
her voice
wafts through our bedroom...
conscious sedation and jungle
rhythmsmmmmms...
quietly in the darkness
still blow a womanly jazz riff.
I love her dearly. I love him too...
The ending is my most favorite part! Keep it up!!!
ReplyDeleteThank you, it's my favorite part as well.
ReplyDelete