The process

Pass me onto your dreamy path,
let me follow the dusty leaves.

Love, the dear child,
a synonym for a mortal non-entity
strapped onto unborn babies,
onto dying stars, before rebirth.

My lips form trumpets,
because I enjoy the sound.
I call for unrestrained being,
the deep of me,
oceanic depth,
lends me visions,
of that which is beyond
any words,
beyond colors,
but only sparingly,
since I’m still a verdant little one,
and we all know the need to be “normal”!
What are you?, when you don’t wear
your words?
Can you taste your own humor?
Your own love?

You cannot possess a thing,
since that one thing must belong to it’s own being.
Bondage takes hold of love, like a curious mosquito,
curious to taste, in the end sucking life out.

As I lay here, the window above,
making trumpet noises,
unaware of tomorrows blessings,
a shade or shadow pronounces the rosy whisper
of that, which cannot be uttered, that which
floats in front of me,
aware of it’s own
inadequate attempt.

~ by Aquatic Poetry on September 15, 2010.

5 Responses to “The process”

  1. Malene, one line seemed out of place, not in the right tempo,
    but it makes for a wonderful TITLE… what do you think?

    a synonym for a mortal non-entity

  2. The imagery in this poem floated between surreal and everyday…quite a fascinating poem to think about.

  3. Denise,
    I had felt it too with that line, though it’s seemed right to leave it in, since love itself can be nonsense and the word itself being a non-entity.
    I really appreciate your feedback.
    English is a language new to me in terms of expression, so I’m in a puddle of word, in which I play, trying to understand their meaning and conducting experiments.

    For a title, you’re right – it would be wonderful.
    Thank you for taking the time,
    Malene

  4. Malene, (i split it so there’s a pause between the lines)
    What are you,
    when you don’t wear
    your words?

    this really resonates with me – the way we so identify with our words or our non-words (which is not the same as silence)
    I love it. I can almost feel your soul reading this poem.
    maria.

  5. Maria, thank you. I feel happy to know that you read these lines, because as you said, and as I thought you would, you understand me, I believe, in a almost poetic way. How I miss you.

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