Speaking In Tongues
Scribbling In Voices
- The car squatted and heeled on the turns
- And rushed on again rumbling tires.
- He saw the holes of cigarette burns
- Up in the sky, smoke in his eyes.
- Tired of peace, tired of war,
- Dramas for which he rehearsed and maybe
- Tired of loneliness even more,
- Than a rattle-box of a sick baby.
- Chased by an orange moon on the wane,
- Feeling the scent of a bitter carnation,
- He was enchanted and drugged by his pain
- Into the sea called Devastation.
- Time for footsteps, you must have seen
- Grass melting under the sun
- Like a lump of green plasticine
- In the hands of your little one.
- Time for voices. You must have heard
- Flippant scales of a crystal Fall
- And a shriek of a graceless bird,
- Grief and fear in its yearning call.
- Time for the broken and twisted rains,
- Reverberating in your empty heart,
- Making the blood hurt in your veins,
- Time for the play to start.
- He stood in the doorway. The sound died.
- The world, a blank canvas, painted anew,
- Swung back. A woman sketched by his side,
- Was somehow familiar, but that was not you.
- Sweet taste of denial, your withering jeer
- Recoiled unavailing, unable to hurt.
- Two barefoot souls on the sharp edge of fear,
- So helplessly mute and so stiffly inert.
- Your anger as hot as a slap in the face,
- Your doubts, corroding in poignant desires,
- All evaporated without a trace,
- All vanished, dissolving like smoke in his eyes.
- And nothing was left but a spell of delusion,
- Like after a surgical intervention,
- Two souls, surviving a deadly transfusion
- Of love that had come from another dimension.