PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Take me home Lord, I do not have the time

to pursue a selfish love, to stand in the fire lane,

to impede the flow of patrons who enter

a wordless zoo.

“oh, I think I love you”

I must follow the doctrine

of how to consume correctly.

I must be steady.

I must be a fool.

There is no green-ness in your eyes

that I can not find.

Perhaps I will read your words in reverse.

And the saints will refine your edges,

make you sinless

and smelling of grass

and pine

They will paint a picture of romance

on your brow, one that can not hide                                                                   

the look of surprise,

of doubt

of anger

of the malice that circulates within the confines

of your brain

“oh, I do, I love you”

It’s the pounding on the pavement,

that liberates the letters

from the words

They are not taken back

or stacked against the pragmatic static;

unheard behind the curtains

unfurled and unwanted

or hidden behind walls

but written on them

You are a novel sir,

one who calls women madam

And your name is forgotten

your name is short

for the purpose

of being instilled in my memory

unfree and once bleeding

It is you, for I do not love you, sir.

There is a revolution ending, Lord

Here, where the brownness of my hands

have been branded

and traced back

to a time before the people fought

to erase the tracks and slashes

on

their  

backs

to

land

back

here

Take me home, Lord

I do not have the time

To find a new place to breathe again.