Close your eyes, friend
And tell me,
What is it that you can see?
You shall see darkness,
Your sight enveloped in a veil of eigengrau,
A diminutive of the Oblivion,
Dancing about on your eyelids.
Alas, if that was all you'd see,
We would sleep with our eyes open.
Your eyes would set their gaze upon
A hinterland in Solitude,
With luscious trees, flowing streams,
And the virgin vagrants of the valley,
Cascading against whistling leaves,
Intrepid amidst the sounds of lapping water,
The resonance of cicadas, the sweet surmise of a nightingale cutting through
these ancient chestnuts and pines.
Your eyes would be graced by breathing, bustling city squares,
Writhing in a crescendo of incessant, unintelligible bellowing, laughing, shrieking, shouting.
The clip-clop of horse hooves against cobble,
The reeling and reigning and revolving chains of a bicycle,
Splashing opaque plashes of rainwater
Down the overflowing gutter.
Iridescent fireflies riding shotgun to the luminaries of Noon.
The stroke of the midnight hour would've struck soon.
Your eyes would've glanced upon an austere escape in those Hills you'd always seen from afar.
They would've drunk the nectar of the overcast skies,
Meandering across thick trunks of old,
Slipping down blades of grass,
As pearlescent nodes.
They would've tasted of the sweetness of her embrace,
Surreptitiously supine underneath a canopy of smaragdine.
You would lie prostrate next to her,
Her slender curves cradled against the soft sands,
Her feet eased into the warmth of the clear stream of a secret spring.
You would lie next to her,
Your weary eyes in tandem with her alacritous ones,
Sharing secrets you'd be too meek
to have spilt otherwise.
In the language of your dreary sight,
A thousand words spoken without a single speck of light.
Close your eyes, friend
And tell me,
What is it that you cannot see?
DKB.
YOU ARE READING
Nonchalance.
PoetryA collection of some stories of mine, written and meant to be read with, you guessed it, nonchalance. (Cover: The Road Not Taken, Arnaud Montagard)
