By Barrett Crawford © 2006
Obscure and misunderstood
If you only knew what I know
of the fibers of time
I have been trapped in thought of these
and the twisting turns captivate.
Can you see the path
the trail I foretell
Perhaps you can, if you but look;
Of the doors to be closed, only
mine is open
and now it refuses to budge.
Caught up in tendrils
you are not you, later
my touch spreads like wildfire
allowing me to know all.
I have been shunned, that was seen too
but this is not my secret.
There is a place within us each
Our souls are written there,
small and close
Now mine is clean, for but one thing:
Nemo propheta acceptus in patria sua
and rarely in his own time.
River runs to the heart
roaring richter against ramparts
I cast the net
and am drowned in my catch.
This too, I say
can be wrong but good.
Brown taste, lip cover
active product of rage;
Who rails stumping on to the block
while running through the hold?
Cavernous and intimate
the cup burns the tongue.
Probably time sees it and laughs
No hold, I say, anymore than
This is my charge to keep
No less than Atlas, no more than Virgil.
What gate is this to breach
what wall to climb?
There are secrets to guard
passages through to find
Time but tickles, whispers,
(Take heed, it remembers like the earth-
fingerprints in dust)
Tread lightly on this soul.
I looked at my watch
and couldn't believe the passage of time.
Why, I wondered, do you measure by the tides
they are unchanging and dynamic
but too romantic.
She paused, confusion flittered across
her wide mouth
It was soon wiped away.
You are mistaken, she said-
I am the tide.
How can one tell what to do
It should have been obvious when marks
had to be re-etched constantly
There is a book for this, I was told;
Incredulous, I didn't know there was an almanac
for the heart.
She gently patted my hand
and wrenched my soul
when she said:
"Were you not listening? You can't build your castles in the sky."
Funny, I thought,
as the wave washed over me.
She was always punctual,
that was her fault.
Maybe I should have seen
I was waxing, she waning-
It is hard to move to one's own beat
when you’re caught in the pull.
Comfort yourself with the same knowledge
with which you are tortured
The hourglass runs like your soul is writ
Someone else will write on you,
fumbling on the shore
This too, she cooed, as she turned away
This too shall pass.
Somehow, I feel no better.
Barrett Crawford is a part-time degenerate living in Nashville, Tennessee.