The Back of a Maple Leaf

The Back of A Maple Leaf Thoughts of autumn wish they had a title, and they wish to see their friends on the parchment. Helpless words drawn, not written; yearning for a spine, longing for muscle and potential. Placed on small paper by a hand of resentment; one who tries to make them sensible only to the mouth; the bastardized machine. Drops of liquid sugar float atop the coffee, and blot out any sweetness that may have been dispersed. They rebel against the physics of the whole ordeal. Swirl my thoughts with disdain created, and taken from a cheapened book of learning. The classics are nothing to the underworld, and the bitterness resolved by time alone; the painful realization eventually broke loose that unhappiness is just that. I am taken aback by the length of time taken. Perhaps a thousand strings to be tuned before one will make a note of joy. What can come of disharmony? More disharmony in the mindless regions with naught but iron and willpower, or so is assumed. I make things obscure for you so they can be misinterpreted, so you can enjoy them. The one’s known only as “they” should stop berating me, because I won’t help them. Why can’t they lay siege unto themselves? Oh well. Assistance to our understanding is the silent occupation of floating ducks, chattering away the day’s events into blissful down, while they awake and tame the morning. The sunrise belongs to the ones with scraped shins; not only that, but the clouds to those with bloody palms and crooked fingers that matter not. Broken hands mended by pureness of thought. All this blended together with the mind in a beautiful hallucination of loving gyration. You and I, orbiting observers, sip at warmth while the bitter cold enjoys biting our eyes, and we the action thereof because of our immunity. Written September 9th, 2001 © on Sep 08 2001 05:27 PM PST   18 • 0 • 12