A thousand years of plucking out the weeds.
A thousand years of sifting through the beads.
But all that time was wasted, now I know,
I haven’t had the thing that makes me grow.
The sky is falling, monsters mauling me,
From inside out and outside into me.
And yet, and yet I know more time I need,
To finally free the fruit and see the seeds.
No lighting in the attic, nor no raindrops on the roof.
I pry and dig into the skin but have no seed of proof.
I’ve never wanted life so much but merited so little.
I haven’t any luck on page, or stage, or flesh, or fiddle.
Why do I toil and pluck out these weeds?
Why do I bother sifting through the beads?
For all this time is wasted, this I know,
I still don’t have the thing that makes me grow.
Why are the stars still falling after me?
Why are the monsters crawling after me?
When can I drink the tea and read the leaves?
When can I free the fruit and see the seeds?
YOU ARE READING
Poems I Almost Burned (Along with My Sanity)
PoetryWhat starts with a sandbox and ends with an epigraph? My first collection of poems.
