SOULS ON FIRE

In the morning, the screen said, it had all been an ache for me.
The Doctor’s needle had passed through my invisible line, I thought: No injury is
yet the result of a mislaid tooth or touch of pneumonia.

In the distance, the great oaks stretched for autumn leaves.

On the ground, the mice hurried from one clearing to the next,
the second mouth to feed.

I wondered, was there any kind of meal for the bodies
of the flowers, or any kind of death more horrible than this?

And it did not matter.

And I thought of all the other soldiers, too to die.

‘Eat breakfast, man, let’s go. It’s raining’

and ‘Go for a bath’
and ‘Got to shave,’
and ‘Be off to work,’
and ‘Drive to the railway
station.’

The truth was that every little death was to be mine,
the tiny ducks that went in the lake and never came out,
the featherless ravens, the sheep that would live on a plain
of loneliness, the bread that did not turn out from the bakery,
and the broken-off rose, the moon that was too late,
the spilled glass of the window, the horseshoe that broke on the floor,
the broken tail of the dog, the lost hoe.

‘Eat breakfast, man, let’s go.’

The truth was every little death was to be mine,
and the dead flower, the nest of the violet, the old wooden swing,
the long lost bird, the fish gone out from the mouth of the
jade stream.

‘Eat breakfast, man, let’s go.’
And the next day: the smiling cat
that dug up the gardens, the dog who went and sat in
the sun-drenched field, the bumblebee that starved in the honeycomb
of forgotten being.

:: 02.28.2022 ::

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love... View all posts by EPRobles

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