The Vent

I am not a root cell.

There is that beauty about you,

Impossible to describe:

Some sweet spark in your fine eye

That I cannot imbibe.

I can want and sigh

But I am not you

And perhaps my despair is destined to be mine own,

Unshared

My wonder and weariness of this world

Mine own only to be known.

I am like a duckling,

Quacking impatiently

Flapping my tinsel wing,

Infatuated with my imprinted humanness,

Enslaved by my glazed eye.

I've been feeling a lot lately;

Feeling what, I cannot say,

Like an infant, I cry, coherent sound foreign on my ear.

I am a sunk lotus leaf

And it weighs my heart to see

My pond go saline

Heat rising, and with it

Sardines rising to the heavens;

Angels fall pray to a harsh god.

I pull my hair out, marveling at your unchaste purity

At violet petals that are yet clean of soot,

And at your hand that goes to paper;

The black magic you scatter stems from inside you

And thrice removed from matter,

Your soul stands before me

Naked and untouchable as the Sun.

This is perhaps all a great pun:

I am bewildered by green screens and ruffling pages and patterns-

Patterns, of sound sight touch;

I am haunted by a higher purpose

That is all but a search of it.

My life is perhaps only a source

And my scribbles, mere means, of purgation

For an audience as yet unveiled.