There was a tower here,
with windows and curtains
all hand-dyed in the colors of our eyes.
The tower was tall,
perhaps a little crooked
with doors and steps in the oddest places.
The way up the tower was clear.
Well, the path seemed obvious to us
though others shrugged at the bottom of the stairs feeling lost.
The rooms were packed.
Each devoted to our creations
of books and pasta and art and silly hats.
We had a laboratory
in which we baked a brew
to swallow and cleanse our insides.
The visions we had of life
could alter the lives we lived
drowning our organs with kinetic energy to go ahead...
But then you climbed down.
You left a note saying
you had a brand new sort of vision.
I waited for you at our highest crooked window.
You would come and go
and go and come, each time
with a new story to tell, a new hole to mend.
Would we talk and stitch
and drink our brew again
before you took my cup, one day, and ran.
You didn't return that evening.
You didn't knock at lunchtime.
You didn't return for another 50 midnights.
You seemed someone aged,
whose eyes were no longer colored
like the cloth we dyed when tower was new.
You told no stories
and heard none of my own.
You whistled and complained that our curtains were old.
You took the fabric down
and left the dirty windows bare
and walked away for the last time that I can recall.
Soon after that day the tower died.
The whole room began to tilt
and I could swear I heard the doors and floorboards sigh
before the stones began to lose their grip and tumble down to suicide.
I ran from the falling rocks.
I left behind all of our creations
saving only the recipe for our over-baked brew.
I tumbled to the ground
and turned to helplessly to watch
as our tower crumbled before me into piles of rocks and dust.
I wiped myself off.
Shoved the recipe in my pocket.
I crawled away from the heap of all that we had constructed.
But, who knows?
I'm no prophet man.
All the materials still rest there awaiting reinvention.
(from www.turtlemom.com)
with windows and curtains
all hand-dyed in the colors of our eyes.
The tower was tall,
perhaps a little crooked
with doors and steps in the oddest places.
The way up the tower was clear.
Well, the path seemed obvious to us
though others shrugged at the bottom of the stairs feeling lost.
The rooms were packed.
Each devoted to our creations
of books and pasta and art and silly hats.
We had a laboratory
in which we baked a brew
to swallow and cleanse our insides.
The visions we had of life
could alter the lives we lived
drowning our organs with kinetic energy to go ahead...
But then you climbed down.
You left a note saying
you had a brand new sort of vision.
I waited for you at our highest crooked window.
You would come and go
and go and come, each time
with a new story to tell, a new hole to mend.
Would we talk and stitch
and drink our brew again
before you took my cup, one day, and ran.
You didn't return that evening.
You didn't knock at lunchtime.
You didn't return for another 50 midnights.
You seemed someone aged,
whose eyes were no longer colored
like the cloth we dyed when tower was new.
You told no stories
and heard none of my own.
You whistled and complained that our curtains were old.
You took the fabric down
and left the dirty windows bare
and walked away for the last time that I can recall.
Soon after that day the tower died.
The whole room began to tilt
and I could swear I heard the doors and floorboards sigh
before the stones began to lose their grip and tumble down to suicide.
I ran from the falling rocks.
I left behind all of our creations
saving only the recipe for our over-baked brew.
I tumbled to the ground
and turned to helplessly to watch
as our tower crumbled before me into piles of rocks and dust.
I wiped myself off.
Shoved the recipe in my pocket.
I crawled away from the heap of all that we had constructed.
But, who knows?
I'm no prophet man.
All the materials still rest there awaiting reinvention.
(from www.turtlemom.com) 
2 comments:
A lovely piece. My kind of poetry. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for reading... it was sad, but necessary.
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