Kaleidoscope

I have been pushed to the edge and over now,
And I struggle to explain just how
to avoid the dying fall...
but that won't help explain it all

until you come clean.

You know what I mean.
You who wrote my final scene
are etched upon my memory

lapsing into the void of unknowing,

but still I'm growing
even after death...you can't feel
my breath but it's there,
licking your ears like the sweet night air

apparently stale now.

And I shudder when I think of how
you pushed me to and over

myself, but it's been hard.

You see I'm quite the card,
just ask my neighbors nearby...
they'll tell you that even though you die

laughing doesn't have to end,

although it's tight-lipped and out of place.
But you, so calm and fair of face,
could stay and laugh awhile

longer now in lieu of the happenstance,

I might as well have missed my chance
to kill you but I'll wait

it out knowing you can't run forever-

and this game has yet to end.
Because you see, you failed to quiet the enemy.

And my pen has plenty of ink.

A hundred little things

I have gone on to the land
of "No One Knows"
and I now reside in what lies inside

of it.

But I was full aware,
falling into that uncertainty,
that I would receive the
things that were meant for me.

The hundred little things that make up a life.

Small, soaring and luminous.
When you stop to make your rest
you might see them...
glimpses of memories never made.
Shadows of moments that were not to be.
They are the little things you
won't know until your passing.

And they are beautiful.

But those who are near you
wouldn't have you know that.
They mop your brow and whisper
"It's all right" when the hour is nigh.
Don't be lulled to sleep by a kind
word and a well-placed sentiment.
They would have you let go before
you fully see what has waited
so long to be noticed

by you who are too busy.

You are not alive and you never were,
but you dwelled in the
eventide of your potential.
That is more than what can be said for some.

So there are a hundred little things,
a hundred little joys that make up a life--
each one punctuated by a moment
not experienced, breaking down the
latticework of our perception.
I want to know each of you
so that I might know myself

but it is not to be.

I am that you see.
[I have no identity]
There is no "me" at all.

At least not anymore.

Inseparable

I have crawled through this...
Coughing and blinking, forgetting
for oh so long.

But I do remember you, oh yes;
I remember you and feel you where
others would not--deep within me.
You churn my breath to waking.

My eyes have not seen for days, yet
you are still there, shimmering behind
velvet curtains.
And though I loved and laughed
with you, it's all over now.
I have fulfilled the prophecy.
I am the sacrificial lamb laid upon the rocks
--food for the earth.
But you won't feed on me yet...
because you won't forget.

I won't let you.

If you wake in the night, weeping,
fighting an unseen assailant, do
know that it's me, darling,
and that I'm loving you
the best way I can.

Let me trickle in
like lukewarm wine
that won't anesthetize
but only make you realize
that life without me ain't so sweet.

[You might had better choose defeat,
than another day without me greet.]

For I'll be there when you'd rather be alone.

Faces

Hair in coiling complexity, perched
atop a blinding countenance...
soulful, reflecting all that is there
and all that is not.

She is a vision, yet this is the face
she wants you to see.
The joy apparent will never be.

Tiny feet descend the stairs,
evoking stares, rhythm and music.
I can't hear it but she can,
and she dances to its melody all night long.

So who will be the first?
Come; delight in her grace,
her elegant waist in your hands.
But you aren't there when the demons come,
so how can you truly know?

Are you there when this fair-faced
beauty turns her head from the mirror?
Or when she looks at her wrists?
Of course not.
So take her hand and believe the lie.

This is the way, I am told, for you have
your faces and I have mine,
and we wear them all at different times.
Maybe soon we'll wear just one,
come undone and make it none--
for I want to know you like no other.

Take me, use me, turn my face to yours
and look into me.
Know all that is there,
all that I could never say.
Peel away my layers,
but please don't turn away.

I am my gift to you.

Adrift

I am in an ocean unto myself...
surrounded and screaming,
tired of being alone in this
perpetual blackness.
Granted, I keep my head above the waves,
but I'm growing weak, and as minutes
stretch to hours the depths
grow more inviting in their finality.

You won't miss me if I stop swimming.

Clinging to this slippery rock,
I'm in a race against the clock...
against myself and all of my will

to live or not.

I'm reaching out
for the nearest soul tonight.
I need my humanity fix.

The wind cuts right through me,
the cold water seeping in,
reminding me of all that I'm not;
of all the ways in which I've
failed myself.
I need you and want you more
than I ever dreamed possible,
yet we've never met.

I need someone, anyone,
but no one hears me
nor knows who I am or what
I'm doing here.
But I'm dying, you see.
I need you to comfort me.
I need--

but you wouldn't know it.

I want you within me--
to feel you there,
shining through my pores
like the winter sun.
Give me some warmth at least,
something to thaw the cold within.

If I devour you whole
I might find the love I never had

and keep it, if only for a while.

the dance

I hear the rustling of the crowd
and I am ready now
To take the stage I know so well--
to dance my dance of love and light.
I do hope you like it.

I am ready to make you proud,
to hear you gasp--
but it's not my time,
is what I'm told...not yet.
I am not yet old

enough.

Mine is a life of falsetto grace, of
smooth lace and an angel's face;
my hair done up in a bun.
Ribbons tied around my calves,
drawn taut; holding fast
the vehicle of my expression.

The dance is a lesson
won, not bought.
I suppose it is the grand prize,
for I could press my lips to it,
drink it up and make it mine--
make it a part of me

if it wasn't already.

I'll paint you a painting with my feet,
and rouse you from your seat.
With a dancer's body and an old woman's mind,
I'm slipping in and out of time

as the music ebbs and flows.

My spirit grows
to incomprehensible heights.
I want you to know my joy,
for my dance cannot convey it all.

Here--feel my heart?
Feel it flutter beneath your palm?
My heart beats for the dance,
for the dance is life.

Parlor Games

I smile then you smile, like two loons
over an empty sea. We tango and flirt
and move in awkward time,
grinning over the rim of our coffee cups.

This is living room politics

and I'm tired of it all.
This act, this proposed reality
we foster and protect is
crumbling like the wafer
you dip in your drink,

But you fail to think
of the repercussions of such.
Can I love you just as much
if I know of all your habits,
petty ways and idiosyncrasies?

It is hard to say, it seems.
I prefer to delight in what you might
think is my idea of you;
don't disappoint me with the truth.

We've been at this too long to quit now.
So have a sugar cube or two or three,
and never tell me what you think of me.

I honestly don't want to know.

©Brandi Clark