what is it about summer that seeks the souls of men? why does it collect them with a determination and a sunny lemon grip and not enough sunscreen and weighted smiles. what is it that lures them into its trap and pulls them into its grass stained wonderland is it the promise of youth or the soccer games in the middle of the road or the roaring thunderstorms of July or the red bathing suits of girls?
I've only ever lost love there. in its warm hands cradling warmer brown skin singing a sweet summer hymn
until I'm pacified enough to calm in the heated dark of its comfort
(quieter)
and then
as my eyes blink shut
(shh quieter)
then
is when
(louder) its hands snap closed and Im taken just like those, boys and their lost souls. Forever left to burn in the eternal sun that claimed them.
oh how I wish I were there with you now.why is it that my summers are only smeared in the paints of blood and black and blue? and theirs smothered in honey gold sweet and warm and melting down their legs in a shimmering stream.
I think I can only poet if I can also prophesizeand my visions tell me that my poetry is and forever will be summer and its inevitable deaths.
first the son. then the father. and the Holy Spirit
