A New Original Poem | “Will We Dance Again?”

A New Poem: “Will We Dance Again?”

The dream is the state of being
I’m so out of sync with what my soul’s truly feeling.
It’s like a dolphin dying off the Tel-Aviv coast,
Circling her only friend, the one she loved the most.
My true soul purpose is to fly,
To go back in time,
To talk with her over a glass of wine,
To climb the Capitol and jump
from it’s Christmas lighted banners,
To swim the seven seas
And to come up to swallow the sunset breeze.
A shower over mass
The vestibule is swollen with people who pass
A shimmering paten and ciborium captures their soul’s eyes.
Once inside the star in their hearts is brighter than the sky’s.
A grand night with a dinner over roast
To the arch angel of the East China sea I’ll toast.
The bread lines extend from the Dukes ashes to the Prussian square.
Hot dogs and steaks and the golden calf are served there.
We can’t wait to go in
And sing for the promenade to begin.
It’s dancers and spritzers and lemonade pie
It’s where the soul comes to be born
And the armies of the night to die.
God bless him under the sea
who with a vodka on ice holds up
All of eternity.
I’ll look in the glass glazed with Christmas breath
She’ll turn away, but God will only know why.
We’ve exchanged gifts.
The consummation is done.
The wood of desire burns crisply
a burgundy glow of the ash of our first blush.
What’s left defies gravity, floating to the sky.
At first it was all sex and white, Cakebread wine.
Now the deacan has turned
No Latin mass is served.
The towers of ice return,
Flattening mountains into prairies and only leaving traces
of our bones’ outstretched, unfulfilled reach
for the diamond lit sky inside the Sorcerer’s chamber.
He who lasts forever is dark in our soul’s
Buried mine.
He’s stolen the chalice filled with our saviour’s wine.
So we clutch the top of the Andes afraid to fall;
Unaware that since the glaciers of the soul have collided
The the distance between what was and what’s now
Is infinite and yet, if only
we would let go,
Not very far at all.

 

©2009 Stephen K. Pickering

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