A Poem | Scarlet Fever

I want to become the flower
Drinking a hawthorn berry shower.
I feel that the painting is alive
That I could jump inside
and live a life.

The love you want resides inside a flame
Burning Jerusalem to the coast of Spain.
From the secret Indian province
to the street children’s colorful ribbon dance.
A carousel song.
They want to belong.
Children of the Sun
in the land before time begun.

We are the whispering ones,
following the trail of crumbs,
grasping for song,
hoping the the poem will come along.
“Run along, run along, my dears
before those little eyes fill with tears.
They are the dew, you know,
Freshly made from the melting snow.
The only God is in your head,
but he’s real and he’s meant what he’s said.”

We’re so tired. We need some sleep.
It’s so important that we dream.
It becomes the patterned sleeve,
The path by which we leave.
Tomorrow’s sounding more like a bell
On which the doves of heaven sing
To the serpents of hell.
Will we wait here all morning in the rain
For the climbing of that midnight train?

It’s made of blue smoke and jazz,
and all the things that we didn’t have.
Halve a peach with me.
Sit down and eat.
When you were a baby covered in red
Did you know the song would awaken the souls
and bring back the dead?

Don’t forget the poem,
or Lucy living under Lake Victoria’s soil.
Blood made of Sun.
Run, rabbit, run.
London is here,
but her price is too dear.

I’m not sure what would make us happy tonight.
A glass of mediteranean wine?
Distilled from the soapy sea
Of flavored memory?

What should we worry about,
cry for and shout?
We may go to sleep,
Lie about and dream,
or maybe there’s something on T.V.,
then walk quietly the evening streets.

The poem at the end of the mind
peeks its eyes up through the morning’s rhyme,
effortlessly following the golden thread of desire,
moving by magic carpet and doesn’t tire.
It winds up a European cobblestone street
looking for a safe place to curl up and grieve.
It is the red, Irish beauty among the leaves
and the flight to the maiden czar across the eternal sea.
She who holds court
at the end of the World.

At the bottom of that eternal, endless sea
The golden bird, golden horse, the princess
We want to return and long to be.

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