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Submitted on
May 22
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25 (who?)
                     Graveyards on the Road

          I drive a street pot-hole paved the lightest grey;
tired eyes coupled with the pitch stained tracks of a younger man
guide me back, the press of tires into the rough, grained
          surface of days long past that never lasted
                              and never last.
          It’s funny how soft skin can feel to fingertips
so used to cigarette burns, see-saw doorknobs, a nibbling mind,
                    and everything but feeling.
          It’s funny how often I find my hands so close
          to my face, posing the question ‘Are you real?’
          then allowing my questions to leave me behind -
          as much unanswered as they are unanswerable,
tires skidmarking on 'initial here' spaces before we let of the breaks -
as coffee burns the tip of my tongue and, at least for the moment,
I can forget there is a world around me and that I chose this,
          a street where I’m gridlocked and stagnant.
          Though I’m older now, the roads stay the same,
                              (in a relative sort of way)
          freshly lined with glittering new cars – wrecks
                    – yet I often find myself jadedly mesmerized,
          unable to look away, captivated; desperately
adjusting mirrors to continue viewing the gaping jaws of life

          casually close to bite into another body of work,
                    and I wonder why we work anymore
                              (or, even, at all).

                                    ‘We do not.’
I realize at a yellow light [red eye] st-st-stutter, stop.
          We stopped working. The tickings of an engine,
                    we overheated, we stopped.

                           Wet Floor
Your tongue tastes of postage, and I begin to wonder
          if you too are writing letters with another:
                    signing a new name.
The nearly negligible trace of faded ink nestled in the
bottom corner of the ‘lifeline’ vein in your palm, an answer
to a silent prayer I never actually wanted a response to.
“It’s funny, isn’t it?” I ask, “When you receive all the right answers
                              to all the wrong questions.”
          –         You have a beautiful way
            of putting one foot in front of the other       –
“What is the question?” You ask, with
          almost a slip of geniality before noticing,
                       “That is the question.”

                     The Dying Season
There is so much pressure to just keep breathing
but this world is too beautiful: I’ll hold my breath,
                    I’ll hold my breath in your hand.
Planting seeds in tiled dirt, I tuck them carefully
beneath lukewarm, death laden, and nightmare free soils,
check the closet for UV night lights, patricides and pesticides:
                    celebrate these graves that we stand upon:
          In a world of breeding pairs, you have to have desire-
                                                able traits.
Staring into a mirror at the intricacies in my eyes,
          hoping to find untuned skies in these
          iris rimmed plots reminiscing about days
          I was felled by the stride of an angel...
          but the wings were just an artistic licensing –
                    a vision we could never afford.
          Surrealism is a common complaint amongst
crowds clamoring for the “I could have done that!”s
                    and the “I don’t get it.”s.
                   A criminal needs a heaven tonight,
          but I’ve got nothing to give, and no matter how
                     very hard I try, I can’t forget
                                  until my mind dies.

                              Microscope Mind
          This morning I came to the realization that
I’ve lost count of the number of collisions – head on
– and that detours are just another notice on a broken window,
          blinds and all, shuddering in the wake of a ‘Warning!’
                              ‘Do Not Enter’
                    wrapped around my throat.
          I’ve lost count of talking head decisions; gone
is the alternate way of living, gluten free with a mouth full of gravel
                    – mumbling something about the end
          is nearest right before the break of dawn, but then
it breaks – and it dawns on me that this is only the beginning,
                                    but it was also the end.

         The Pain of Being Pure at Heart
          I am shipwrecked among you,
black eyeing a chipped spy-glass bottle
that I have not yet accepted as empty;
                        ‘Indeed, I know I am.’
A brook of babel flowing forth from out my soul,
          cascading over shards of glass,
broken bottles dancing with my feet –
                    always being stepped on
–  a jig, a jaunty, a jive, a jacket straight:
          aces high and deuces wild.
I will never lose more than I lost the night
          that I had nothing to lose;
          I learned that nothing is no one’s to lose.
I am not a lucky man. I’m neither a joker, nor the joke.

It was considerably more difficult than I thought it would be
          to plan my own burial. Shovel dirt over my name.
                    Shovel dirt over my bed.
Some people are wise, they spend their whole lives
          digging for themselves a hole to lie in,
but me, I am too far behind; I am the grave-digger
mugged by an angel fallen of a cherub that was never mine.

                     I am the grave-digger
                              who was struck blind.
          I died in the meeting of an eye for an eye,
                     because you were too beautiful,
                              and I was a lie.

"I'll meet you where the moonlight falls,
    I'll meet you where the statues stand.
    I'll meet you beneath the fallen walls,
    As we await the reveal of God's hand.

    Here amongst these ruins,
    Here, knee deep in these sands,
    I'll shed tears for you, my love,
    But you shall never see them,
      shall never see of me again."

                      -The Mariner to His Mistress

Written for and submitted to :iconwriters--club:.

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Glametalove Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Rien à dire, c'est magnifique ! 
Keep up the good work Thumbs Up 
Carmalain7 Featured By Owner Jun 4, 2014
Merci beaucoup! (did I spell that right? My French, in spite of my name, is admittedly quite rusty.)
I very much appreciate the read.:thanks:
LiliWrites Featured By Owner May 25, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Your work is always so engaging. Your line breaks in this are so clever (in particular: "In a world of breeding pairs, you have to have desire-/ able traits.") and the pacing is perfect. Each section feels like its own story, yet they're cohesive together. I loved reading this. :hug: Really fantastic work.
Carmalain7 Featured By Owner May 30, 2014
You know, I never could really pinpoint in a word what I strive for in my writing, but I think you - being the font of wisdom that you are - achieved it for me in 'engaging'. I'm not sure much of a higher honor exists in my little lit-universe.

Glad that the pieces could puzzle connect the bigger picture, Lil, as always I am beyond honored. :thanks:
KittykatMWuster Featured By Owner May 23, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
I admire the way you use line breaks and punctuation so effectively - the poem is beautiful both when read silently and when read aloud. I believe my favorite section is "The Dying Season".

Your name seems familiar - I think I've also seen another one of your poems from a few years back ("Hyperborean", if I remember correctly). It was a beautiful poem and I read it repeatedly for almost a month. You've only improved since then, and this one doesn't disappoint me. (:
Carmalain7 Featured By Owner May 26, 2014
This is one of those comments that literature writers dream about. I'm so very honored, good miss.

If one and the same, Hyperborean was indeed written through me. I revisited it not long ago and truly I see it still as one of the best pieces I've written. That said, I may know when I've achieved the message I want to impart, but I never know if it is coherent enough to mean something on the other end; it means a lot to hear that it stuck with you, truly it does.

But yes, you do me far too much honor and I can't thank you enough for all the joy I got from this comment, but thank you so much.
thehatterschild Featured By Owner May 23, 2014  Student General Artist
I think Microscope Mind was my favourite section of that, really beautiful and subtlely done. ^_^
Carmalain7 Featured By Owner May 26, 2014
Fixation is a fascinating thing.

It's nice to hear from you. Hope all is well across the pond. :salute:
cristinewakesuphappy Featured By Owner May 22, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Though I’m older now, the roads stay the same,
                              (in a relative sort of way)
          Freshly lined with glittering new cars – wrecks
                    – yet I often find myself jadedly mesmerized,
          Unable to look away, captivated; desperately
Adjusting mirrors to continue to view the gaping jaws of life

graveyards on the road is a stunning title, got me hooked.  :heart:

Carmalain7 Featured By Owner May 26, 2014
And this is a stunning compliment, thank you so much, good miss. If the beginning got you hooked, then something is working right. =D
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