The Commoner

Born in a swallow of earth and sky and for four hundred and eighty eight years The Commoner Still thought that the earth was neither gold nor grains, But was worth more than three hundred Years of silliness and more than half a century of grazing paradise out of dominatrices, imitation and half-meant jokes of complacency, Lethargy; and Today he stands naked with a royal dress, outdated, outmoded, insufferable for ever more.

The Story

“You ought to have a breathing truth,” I once said,
You were torn asunder to an answer so soundless
to lock lips with the lipless–
because you were ever so sworn,
“But like a running wind,” I reckoned,
You thawed but left no trace
but only the dregs and pins
of the fearsome seams
of the old darkened lights
we once called hearts and minds,

and I surely remembered,
you long ago walked defiantly
like a huntsman, for I was the bullet
when I inched past your breath;
to commune and marvel;
only to trade them with the sunset
you loved most–and ebb into one,

So I ask for your regret;
Will the glare above the sky be the only but
a thousand more daybreaks and sunsets,

as you don’t trust you could take me anywhere, you said,
You could only sing such silent dainty madness
and I would only lay awake until I forget what has been
a cascade unwound so that we may grow up thick,
though I am insofar to see
the way beyond the folderol–
maybe you told me a fairy tale, after all

Most of the time it's waiting

–with sweaty shirt and trousers
amidst people roundabout,
in perfect silence,
against a buried time that is equal to none
but the swerve of day and night,
on clouds made of dry breath,
under a starless firmament with which only
your voice could give direction, as if
my whispers could beckon;
–above a castle in the sky,
for your return, for your return