You said I was cursed to love in darkness,
but I carry matches, candlesticks, torchlights, high powered LEDs, road legal lasers (and the ones burning truths into the back of your mind); I will love in light one day, one of these days, or part of a day maybe, mornings before 7? For an hour, or less? Can I have a passing thought of love and light, please?
You said I was cursed to love in darkness
— but I refuse.
There’s so much going on in my orbit, but I don’t know how to get there
Copyright © 2021 @behind-the-veil-of-sanity / Hayden Veil
Copyright © 2021 @behind-the-veil-of-sanity / Hayden Veil
A life at the end of the road, a gravel path
leading from somewhere to nowhere;
I watch myself watch myself
smiling as the dust settles,
the spring bulbs emerge from the frozen
and the summer meadows bloom.
I would be happy there, in the other world,
in their world …
meandering through the pines
and fir forests, golden berries of clouds
and golden mushrooms hiding;
I would be content there
at the end of a road
— leading nowhere.
Sometimes I just want to stop writing, but I can’t. What’s wrong? Am I addicted to words I will never manage to elevate; cement shoes, concrete boots and Chicago overcoats, all filled with words of imaginations and ambitions far beyond qualifications. There’s no ink to dry out, no graphite needing sharpening, nothing material to run out of; it’s the pit where words will never catch fire.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
the last snow had melted and the sun
never rose above the horizon.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
shades of grey stained the sky
and people faded into ghosts.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
echoes of the perished ones
reverberated like gongs at night.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
the exit of the labyrinth of night
was lined with gleaming knives.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
blunt utensils and silverware
mixed with scents of cinnamon.
I wasn’t just having a bad day,
suppressed-memories jokes
lingered like mist in early morning.
It wasn’t just a bad day, it was a day
like every other.
Picking low-hanging fruit
in the orchard of complaisance,
you came and I followed
your drum, beating beating
out of step out of time.
Sprinkling fine fairy dust
I await the advancing storm
to restore my lost autonomy
in the orchard of complaisance.
When the words run out
and the pin drops
all you see is hay;
the wire binds no truth
to fictional strangers;
but kindnesses forms
in unexpected places;
expect words
to break the silence.
Shirt and tie, bleached and ironed,
I wore respectability once; twice
I sought the band of gold,
both turned to lead; three times
three times I ran away
from everything, seeking every thing
missing, finding only the same
shirt and tie; stained and crinkled;
kissed by moths, and memories.
24 years
24 months a year
24 days a month
24 hours a day, yay
24 minutes an hour
24 seconds a minute
24 years a second.
How long was the pierce of string
you gave me,
anyway … I might be wrong
about many things, but 24
is not my age
– yay.
