These crowded rooms are so locked in turmoil
And I, so polluted and dark with these
Marks of passion for what once was.
I am neither the judge nor the remainder
Of the throws and pulls of their hands
As they take states and country sides for
Wild rides and jungles hold on to their ivory
As the man with the gun betrays it
And I believe one day I sat inside the room that I was meant to die
But someone there held me so close that I couldn’t find a way to hide
And maybe the rope that was meant to choke me
Was really the rope that carried me through air
And let me sink into a pond that engulfed me so.
These valleys and hills that tease me in a way
Where I see the earth as some landscape or painting
That we own,
That we have painted with our bare hands
That take states and country sides for
Wild rides and jungles hold on to their ivory
As my mind with it’s gun betrays the heart;
And cold and breathless,
There lies the carcass of what should have been.
Of what should have been.
Is there a regret playing a game inside these lines?
Is there a secret inside my apostrophe,
This simile?
I don’t want to look anymore,
I don’t want to play.