If only I knew where the sky begins,
and were I only ware of where it ends;
I’d state how many stars incandesce here
and also ’bout each thing that our earth tends;
The answers I shall give with no defense.
Remembrance of a bitter season thrown upon the world,
when blood and bone would fertilize as fiefdom’s flags unfurled,
entrenched in mud, the good intentions blown apart by fear,
if only Spring might rear its head and Winter disappear.
Last night I had the strangest dream I’ve known
for as I lay in bed, my conscience soothed
I heard a growl of graveled baritone
and sat up straight as something subtly moved.
I saw a hooded figure dressed in black
that loitered only inches from my bed,
it wore an awful satchel on its back
and through that cloth I saw that something bled.
I mind the days we swam,
the nights we confabbed too.
But face recalled not, damn!
Who could state what to do?
Between right and wrong torn,
your mind does facts distort.
A small mistake that’s made
seems like a deadly rot.
You ask me who engendered these small worlds,
but ask I who begot the cause of all.
If God exists, where is he now, please say,
and also if he likes spring, summer, fall.
My mind does boggle sighting cosmic curls.