A Terza Rima

I met a man who just the other day
declared he wrote his poetry for me.
“But we have only met…” I tried to say.

He silenced me and said he did agree,
yet still each poem he writes is surely mine.
I asked him to explain that I might see.

He then quote poesy laudable and fine,
so listened I and watched his old eyes tear
while failing hide the shiver in my spine.

“Now, tell me if you will and say it clear,”
The poet challenged me, though gently spoke.
“that you own not what I compelled you hear.”

frail as a vase
your words like a veil
are translucent touchs
bleeding through me
mists on the dream tiles
the heartbeat
black mould grout
ideals

embrace me
and I feel loved
like the hot needle
streaking ink
the wings black
that pain exquisite
and beautiful
like the sky run with
torn clouds

mystic air about the
ghosts of our history
our unbecoming
stitched and torn
with wounded pride

I dare say,
I'm proned to celebrating most all inalienable rights
as with the other lofty, idealistic dribble in our constitution;

at any rate,
the point I'm making here is rather sacred.
I'm speaking of the sporadic, irreverent visitations, and viewings in the library of my heart.

In other words,
those morsels, and tid-bits that assist us in conjuring up the past;
re-animating memories into the here, and now;
and tickling the hairs, in certain places.

Maybe there was,
Maybe there wasn’t,
But I can still remember,
When life had pulled up for me,
Waves of smoke and dust,
As we rode through the blinding canals of a black river,
“I cannot breath” I said,
But I was ignored,
So I explored,
And found their names on the walls,
I found their lives on the walls,
They who had risked so much for a name,
My name will not be up there,
You will find my name on papers,
And you will find them beaten by the colorless,
And you will choose to look away,