Moon over Sixpence

Life's like a bride,
stripped bare by eye,
and hung like a dying paint
over space.
She might not stick around,
but you can feel
the air of anticipation,
always.
It's like a broadcast
from a territory of speech,
received, but not decoded.
You reach across the constraints
of something you learned, like a phrase.
Feeling is satisfaction.
Meaning devoured by emotion.
The hungry tigers roar
and roam in search of fresh meat.
But you have nothing to offer,
with a bow,
without arrow,
as useless.
The phrase that you coined
may well pass for a start.
But, what's the use of a start
at the end of the passage?
No repetition is worth the while.
All energies are extinct.
The plausible amiable buddhas
of recent days come splash,
well ahead of a drop.
That which is not,
is coming.
So you head for the door,
so keyed-up you can't agree with the lock.
Why not keep on the inside?
Let the Moon drool
over Sixpence.


2014.