Collected

Guards relieved of duty,
The gates were thrown wide.
A multitude found the way in.

And now?
And now?
And now I’ve gone —
A fool again.

On the first,
Willing, and anyhow,
He had a way with words.

But now the others,
Awkwardly engendering
This need to enfold,
Have followed.

There must be something
More than the collecting of loves,
The wanting of wives.
So here, let’s unravel
Common threads.

Driven to compose
With a composure
That suffers
When the next is forgotten.

Critical solitude –
Its nature twofold:
Both need
And the dysfunctional
Analysis that eclipses conformation.

Secrets kept close,
And the worry,
And the worry,
And the worry,
And the worry
At the laughter,
Voices in the head.

Moon-worshipping
Chanters of birdsong
And heathen prayers.
Gatherers of the misplaced and forgotten.

Makers and singers,
Fakers who linger
On doorsteps,
Afraid of the crowd.

And, too,
The safety of spotlights and stages,
Or a soapbox
Built of wires and torn pages.

Collect these clues
In a pictured oak box,
A little moonshine
In a jar on the dusty shelf,
And know
That the alarms
Were always destined
To fail.

Because these –
Unknown and unseen loves –
Are essential –

A splintering ice
That collects in cycles
Of freezing and thawing
‘Round the heaving roots –
Inevitable companions
Of the turning season.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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