Francisco

msquared's picture

[New site or not, the angsty poetry continues! :-)]

Why do the miles
Collaborate
To coalesce into
A patchwork barricade
Of innocent farms and
Tarnished cities
Blockading me from you?
Their earthen hands united
Daring me to shatter
Their stretching mass of soil
And find your laughter
Within a foreign
Spectrum of
Civilization
In the largest game
Of red rover
This world has ever seen

Why is your face
A contraband product
Within these yearning eyes?
Manufactured by
Just the right type of beautiful
To fulfill
A dream-like occupation
Within my sight’s enclosure
A fantasy of features
Plowing through the
Eager defenses
Of my idolatry

Why does the plague
Of solitude’s
Consuming infection
Grip my polluted heart
Ever tighter each
Twenty-four
Enduring hours
That your smile eludes me?
The ice-bathed pincers
Of loneliness unrelenting
Clenching their way to homicide
In
A clockwork death by heartache

Why do memories
Bewitch my brainwaves
With our lives captured
In days of moving pictures
That were once forbidden
To the realm of
Impossibility?
A polaroid concoction
Of the magic that we shared
Animated by a
Sorrow that heaves
Within the matrix of
My lungs
Everyday I face the sun
And the majesty
Lounging in your eyes
Reflects for a moment
Upon its solar skin
Undeniable to the last
Wink of flame
Ensorcelling
The naked horizon

Why do your words
Still languish within
Cartridges of
Crestfallen currency
Zooming between
Cerebral hands?
An aural epidemic
Polluting the area
Of my mind’s
Tortured circumference
Like a restless wind
Lapping
The brittle skin of stone
Till its jutting architecture
Surrenders body and spirit
To the will of the wind’s
Bittersweet erosion

Why did the gods
Incarnate such a
Tragedy
Upon the mortal scene?
Lie there no pity
In the booming attics
Of their sempiternal hearts?
What bitter machinations
Could employ
Such ruthless engineering
On the base of human flesh?
Too soft is its geometry
To sustain such raw events
Too lightly its form wetted
By the bath of lonely tears
Too easily is it frightened
By the specters of the past
Too simply it is murdered
By the love that we all lack