invade a quiet space in valleys of sycamore trees
their leaves clapsed to solitude awakening
fragments of the person rooted in
some young face
that will not be the young face
forever staring at tan demeanor
hurling temptations to the conscience
finding this all too difficult
while holding the drink
and pouring wine from goblet with
the sun drunk and demanding immediately
"Bring me darker shades of red!"
on those delicate cheeks
crumbling with disease and antiquity

was 23 now 27 and still
the long showers
the long walks
the long thoughts
eaten and enoyed by the soft music of the locust
the chirps and whirs disintegrating the
imagination of a much needed pause

in an ocean of madness
i dont know who i am
i dont know what to grab onto
when this world is a shifting paradigm
of endless travesties and
family vacations where the kisses are soggy
and the fingers wrinkle from hours at the
wayside pool of tears and fears
spiraling down a rusty colored drain
the candles highlighting its delicate copper
tones and notes
that scream out to me to pick up the pen
and write

write damn it

capture these moments of youth
before it is too late

before the tyranny of the inevitable
takes all that i am
and replicates
and resembles
a flawless
rosy colored
drain, plain as God
simple as the devil
both invading my space
in the secret handshakes
of sycamore leaves

10/08/2005

Posted on 10/08/2005
Copyright © 2026 Curt Allday