Photo by Jules D.
It is There
It is there, the tiniest of moments, the breath of distant thoughts
of the past, where we kept the beautiful things in locked boxes,
to be admired, envied for the simplicity of their life, the dazzling
arraignment of their flesh, a tapestry of hues, the texture of loss.
It is there, the broken path leading to our own expectations, desires,
framed in tattered blueprints, draped upon the wall, behind cracked glass,
a totem to be deified, a forgotten favor, a kerchief tucked into the bodice
of loveless artifice, a will-o'-the-wisp dancing on yesterday's petticoat.
It is there, behind the hedges, beneath the awnings of our dreams, lost,
a party descending into an endless abyss of torn pages; thank the gardener
there's more to seedless earth than feral stock, there's more to sunlight
than glinting rays in rimmed spectacles, absent looks in lover's eyes.
It is there, wrapped inside the leaves of trees long since culled, silent
as the grave gracing the distant hillside with its scarred stone and
wilted bouquets, and just as imprisoned, behind rusted iron, topped
with fleur-de-lis, their mute cousins still decorating the long grass.
It is there, clasped between the sharp teeth of a small brook, winding
its fruitless course along the borders, teasingly disappearing, provoking
with its wetted tongue, constant in its beckoning, its insatiable demand
to be stroked by idle hands, to be gazed upon, to be tirelessly loved.
It is there, the harpist with dexterous hands, plucking at nerves, deftly
entwining wisdom with the chirps of melancholic birds, perched in rafters,
staining the timbers with their self-repugnance, burning their webbed feet
with their immovable will, craning their necks to peer through cracks.
It is there and will always be there, despite the sideways glances, the absences,
the loss of dignity that comes with confession, the hopeless chastisements
birthing resentment, the sacrificial lambs, blooded on foundation stones,
the cries, the bleating, the fleeting intoxication of unfettered annunciation.
The breathless disappointment, the desire thrust against stone, fear
like burrowed worms, aerating your insides until you ring hollow, want,
dreamed up and taken as truth, truth, taken as lies, discarded and blamed
for leaving, and wrong, so much wrong until it is all mistaken for right.
It is there.
First published in Unlimited Literature's first print/electronic issue on September 24th, 2020.
The Author
Craig McGeady is from Greymouth, New Zealand and lives with his wife and two daughters in Xuzhou, China. His writing runs the gamut of length and form thanks to Mr. Miller, his high school homeroom teacher with a penchant for Michael Moorcock. He has been published in The Garfield Lake Review, The Remembered Arts Journal, Underwood, Genre: Urban Arts and Roanoke among others and is winner of the 2018 Given Words 'The Spanish Connection' Poetry Competition. He has also self-published two chapbooks of poetry, 'We Have Taught the Trees to Rust' and 'From an Upstairs Room'.
Craig McGeady
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