summon me not dancing

summon me not dancing
below dark sky of my heart
sing me not at early dawn
where no one man
can draw a jagged line
between fading goners
and the silent ones in turn

there are ceremonies
where the old boot
is soft skinned and in love
smelling of vanilla and
all that comes
with any wished beginning
listed at day's yearning

spilled – lost in so many days
one foot deeply rooted
in the spoils of the fathers
I watch the passing hour
I will not go between
iced end and bright grace
for the sake of I to go

bitter drinks in rivers
where I is a lost concept
and the rest of us just falls
like rotten vanilla
blending with the forlorn
runs with the rest of us

steepled I know
crammed
into a jar of nothing
slept through
like a calf bereaved
danced through
like in a nest of hornets



Poetry by Bob
Read 577 times
Written on 2017-11-14 at 22:06

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This poem makes me feel like the writer wants to say that he refuses all those joys of life that he once enjoyed, like in the stanza where he mentions the ceremonies where the old boot is soft and smelling of vanilla, and he shuns that to the last prophetic stanza.
Ashe
2017-11-16