He’s there.He’s here.He’s everywhere.In my head,My mind,My soul,My spirit.I try to get away.But I can’t.To break the connection.The line holding us to our fates.
Leaves.Changing colors.Me.Changing grades.The trees.Bare.Me.Baring less.The birds.Migrating south.Me.Migrating to my friends.Away from my parents.The birds are flying.The trees are standing.The leaves are falling.
How is it that you know me?So well?You know when I’m happy.You know when I’m hurting.You know when I’m angry.You can tell just by looking at me.How do you see?See past my walls?I built them strong.Unbreakable, or close enough.Not see-through.You seem to just pass through them.Like they aren’t there.I can talk to you about anything.You seem to just sidestep the walls.Like everyone’s trying to figure,
What do you doWhen your worldWhich you love and cherishComes screeching to a halt?When it stops being in your control?When all you can doIs stand thereAnd watch it fall.Wishing you could do something.But not being able to do anything.Be able to watchWatch it crash.Watch it break.Break like glass.Your world is made of glassIt’s that precious. So precious
Poison ivy crawls at its root,I dare not approach it,It has an air of hate.One would say a man had been hanged to its branches,It holds them in such a way.The moon gets tangled in it,A distant steeple seems to barkFrom its belfry to the sky.Something that no one ever loved,Is buried here:Some grey shape of deadly hate,Crawls on the back fence just beyond.Now I remember--once I wentOut by night too near this oak,And a red cat suddenly leapt
Long vast shapes... cooled and flushed through with darkness....Lidless windowsGlazed with a flashy lusterFrom some little pert cafe chirping up like a sparrow.And down among iron gutsPiled silverThrowing gray spatter of light... pale without heat...Like the pallor of dead bodies.
What shall I do when the Summer troubles --What, when the Rose is ripe --What when the Eggs fly off in MusicFrom the Maple Keep?What shall I do when the Skies a'chirrupDrop a Tune on me --When the Bee hangs all Noon in the ButtercupWhat will become of me?Oh, when the Squirrel fills His PocketsAnd the Berries stareHow can I bear their jocund FacesThou from Here, so far?'Twouldn't afflict a Robin --All His Goods have Wings --I -- do not fly, so whereforeMy Perennial Things?