The Last Rose.

The dark. Not a buzz, a blink; a belief. A star, distant, lost, shining. Not here. Dark. Infinite dark. Finite dark. A smile, far away, like the star. I don’t see it; only the frown, in front of me, upon me, within me. The night warms around me. I am upon a bench in Red Hook, the bay before me, my future, calm like waves, calm like night. I am with you. I am with you. Who are you? Who are you? Which is which? I am in a garden, surrounded by metal, water, traffic. No star here, just holes. Dark holes. The same holes. A garden, yes, in the rain, yes, I picked this for you. The color of dawn. For you. Dusk now. Only dusk. Endless dusk. Moon home. Dark, no light, moon. Rain, rinse, repeat. Same old, same old.

What is the purpose of this? A dream. Deferred, real? Deferred. A dawn deferred. Again and again. Goes back now, before you, before time, this time, that time, to my time. In a basement, concrete cold against bare bottom. Figure there. Figure here. Let’s try. Mom don’t leave. Wood cold against cheek, tears puddle, drown. Don’t know what it is. Born into. Silence. Dusk. Gay. Not gay. Straight no chaser. Chase me. I chased you now you chase me. One road, two road. Back, forward. Through Red Hook, Hills West, Hills Cobble, gardens, pyramids, seas, fields, meadows, streams, around the basin, in the tide, in the rain, sunbeams, rose petal planks. Down. Look, there’s my heart upon that thorn. Never here. Never there. Always was. Same old, same old.

~ by grasshopperstothemoon on 14 May 2009.