h1

We All Lie Unfinished

August 3, 2013

At break-neck speed

a moth circles the glowing

bulb above. It whirls around

like a dog-fighting spitfire,

while below a rat emerges

from beneath a wicker chair.

The two don’t think of each other,

they don’t even imagine.

But rats love moths

as moths love flames.

*

The bulb has faded

replaced by a still white light

that I cannot turn to see

but which I know is the moon.

The moth is high. I could reach,

but I can’t get up.

I can’t even begin to move, blink,

or start a single breath.

The rat has become a silhouette.

His eyes tiny black baubles

set with a small pure pearl

of reflected moon.

And he has frozen,

transfixed on something,

the moth maybe,

which clings to its bulb

that no longer shines.

*

The rat can’t reach the moth.

I could reach, but I can’t get up.

If only I could get up

from this still-life canvas

where I lie on the edge of my bed

ceiling-bound and held

waiting for my time to move again

where time is forfeit

and I remain

only to lie unfinished.

*

AJG

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8 comments

  1. May I reblog this?


    • Sure, can, Sahm! You have a broad mix of styles and I’ve seen a lot that I like. I started following your blog as I hope to read more. Thanks for words! AJG


  2. Reblogged this on The Arkside of Thought by Sahm King and commented:
    This piece is pretty deep. Definitely a must read. Check it out, my friends!


  3. sometimes the printed page can come alive and move around you like a scene from a movie – your piece just did that – great writing!


    • Humbling comment. Thanks a lot!


      • your welcome – its true.


  4. Great poem


  5. moving…great poem!

    from this still-life canvas
    where I lie on the edge of my bed
    ceiling-bound and held
    waiting for my time to move again

    Haunting imagery.



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