There are days and nights,
in our stories:
forty days, and forty nights,
seven days, and seven nights,
and only the third day came alone.
If your third day comes,
you are walking home, love,
but if the nights fall in succession,
dark and boundless, come to me.
I will remember your summer- the pillar of fire
is carved beneath my breastbone. Forty days,
my love,
and when the night comes, rest.














Comments
If you ever say you're not a poet, you'll break my heart.
--
you can write, but you can't edit
website - [link] | blog - [link]
I've been trying to write a poem about how death is just part of life, and night is just part of the day... for... weeks.
If your third day comes,
you are walking home, love
And that you said, "The people who need this poem know what I'm referring to," because I DO, on both counts.
--
What if you slept? And what if, in your sleep, you dreamed? And what if, in your dream, you went to heaven and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower? And what if, when you awoke, you had the flower in your hand? Ah, what then?
You were one of the ones I had in mind.
Isn't it funny, how important our mythology is? I don't by any means mean that in a demeaning way (... And I'm not trying to be mean? xD). But we draw our maps in stories, and sometimes the stories get lost, and we don't know which way we're going. I think a poem can help sort that out, sometimes... can map out the stories again... but it won't help any, if you aren't orienting yourself by those same stories.
--
What if you slept? And what if, in your sleep, you dreamed? And what if, in your dream, you went to heaven and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower? And what if, when you awoke, you had the flower in your hand? Ah, what then?
--
~You plead to everyone...see the art in me...~
*~
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