Here's a collaborative piece that Tommy Oviatt, of
Sofo, and I just wrote. Literally five minutes ago.
Sighing, and laughing shakily, the moment arrived
and mourning arose, like light in her eyes
frantic, at the point of fervent persperation,
he leapt up and winced,
realizing finally, that shorebound, he'd missed
the feeling of movement, the lift,
the dazzling ethereal emptiness sometimes
caught in a red summer sunset,
alone, drifting to the distant seagull's song
and boring through the sky, back to the thing
for which he'd looked all along,
what he'd tragically forgotten to dredge up
in daily memory, he had managed to mangle; to distort
the odd sting he would otherwise feel if he'd only
place his arms around something real, shake it hard
to see what might fall, breathe in deep to
stand up and reach for what could be all
given with age, like a perpetual guest, uninvited and
persistent, was more tangible now, and on its
wind floated the fact that this happens once,
with no return ticket, no hint of remorse
and a wasted life follows broken course, past empty
smiles and shattered isles, from closed eyes to fearful
sighs blowing past those great worlds in which we cast
our dreams, the universe in which you live that I can't flee,
never rests or relinquishes its staggering demands
squeezing dry an undreamt man, wrenching
weariness from the fortunate, forecasting failure
for the faint, leaving only a listless murmur,
a blue-bruise stain, a limp deep enough to slow recollection
so emotion drifts down, sifts out to leave the golden
lesson learned - a life ignored may as well be burned,
as he foresees himself, empty in orange embers
dust in a line of light, aimless in its wandering,
no embrace, no twinge of solace, as if meant
for another, more radiant flesh.
