All Rise To The Sky

what makes him live some more
is always that secret

he treasures it
like his own life

it is so real
its jagged and pointed edge
wounds the corners of his page

it is the wound that makes
him move
that pinning and prolonged
pain
that creates the creeping
story on the surface
of his skin

he does not waggle like an old
wheel
along that public
road
(to hell)

it is the pain
that makes him think like a cliff
above the plain
that worships it like
a king

from out of his innards
comes out a
spasmodic voice
of a series
existences
imagine that caterpillar
moving in your
left eye

it is beautiful
the listeners clap
deep inside the
whorled ugliness laughs

it is the threat that one loses
everything
in the wink of an eye
that one tiptoes on the wire
keeps its hold and never
gives up like a sore

it is the hardest fall
which gives the dignified rise
it is the pressured noise
that creates the external
whispering
silence

he keeps all these like a house
with closed doors and windows
the cooking continues and
all the ingredients
well cooked
inside that dirty kettle

all things are always brewing
all the processes of the silent brain
aging

the cause creates the smoke
and the flavor
that eventually escape from
the leaking roof of the house

all rising to the sky
like a gigantic sigh.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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