this day, the sea is on fire,
and these are just lines on a page,
struggling to keep up with thoughts,
trying to capture my innocence
and my glorious bloody rage,
as I dance with an angel
on the head of a pin
watching everything spill out from within,
drenched in the sorrow
of so many misspent centuries --
time when I could have loved You --
and I mourn myself,
along with this worthless ode,
the writer writing of the horse he never rode:
the passion, the fever,
and the clenched fist;
the seer, the doer, and the dier,
we make a lousy eternal trio,
disappearing into that fire.
January 10, 2010.
Copyright © 2010, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.