AND when the world has fallen upon the cavity
of your sunken chest go out into the day,
feel the sunlight and how it’s warmth has
become lit sheets of icy fingers upon your soul,
and know the bright yellow bulb in the sky
is a world of fire and ice.
And when your soul has slender-ed, into a pencil
without its lead and your mouth is no longer
able to spell or speak nor write, then the world
is an unspoken ill without its Scribe; some
say He has died or was never born and others,
that he died nailed upon two pencils upon a hill.
And when you have grasped this meaning and you will,
then allow the world to fall through you,
and all the kisses, wishes, and well-spent days
of your life…
:: 01-22-2015 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 