On The Wheel We Weave

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic
So many times, we observe, inaccuracies, distortions, and trickery, whether on our flat screens, in our workplace, or among our relationships. For many of us, we feel tension, a victim's attitude of some cruel illusion portrayed on us. This perception inspired me, a story in the genre of magical confusion, illustrated by my thoughts and emotions. This consciousness is not unique but resides in us, like the understanding of nature. By this poem, I hope to capitulate to you complexities and confessional intimacy. Or, just let it read you, roaring.

Submitted: July 22, 2014

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Submitted: July 22, 2014



On The Wheel We Weave

Truth? We pray truths!
Our conversation is unstable.
Our vocabulary is unsuitable.

Alone, we tailor nature's lies
and dye gray drapes,
broken stars and black marks upon us.

The hound's-tooth digs to conceal the skeleton
as flesh once showed life's fragmented bones.
We clothe our denial, but holes leak it through.

It trickles THERE, THERE and THERE,
where wounds from an eyetooth of unsettled Cerebrus,
sounds the beast that's always in bark.

In buttonholes rimed with eyelets, 3 buttons, peep and point.
Not painless or stainless,
but rather horrible bloody droplets that splatter golden false eye.

Ornamentation stabs the twill.
On our woven wool, we stare.
Everyday our wrists bleed more.

We cry in this cloth
gazing in pools of dark, still water,
and drip sweat, on the wheel we weave.

Black-on-white barriers form our crossroads,
craves, wheelbarrow pietas
buried in the lowlands.

Petrified mounts us in lye,
like a white cloud,
where confidence floats.

We puff last rites,
sniff the gutter of cool odor, as light distort on our black
to connect, what burns.

On our throat, tightens
the upside down tongue, so dry to heaven.
Her knot, our tied tongue, constricts us to gaze at the garden.

One day we swivel, left to right,
our circled bent head,
orchids are in bloom, as the sun rises.

Three hang dangling on ordinary straight, flat lines,
as devilish devotion to pattern radiates from the sun
blooming the beast's, to whiten, wilt, choke and die.

As we imagine, the ghostly serpent crosses the river, nightly.
Fangs slither white, over and over the dirt and filth, to fill the cloth.
Our eyes glance downward and backwards at embossed shiny coins.

a REVELATION, glistens, spins on our world
a voice of madness, howls.

"In GOD we trust"
miracles come forth, as we scratch
right to left, that lying DOG.

And, as the gates close, I
smile, itch and button my Lanvin wool blazer, textured, perspiring,
my ascot loosened, as I shivered, back and forth.

Outside, a cool breeze
and white snowflakes fall in the night,
finally, I write truth.

"...Climb the Norse tree,
rejoice, love
and leave behind Pirithous."

B. Garth Steinhagen






© Copyright 2019 B Garth Steinhagen. All rights reserved.

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