a.d. winans | early morning poem


whispers of fog seek refuge
on my window sill
ghosts from my past
make love to my brain cells
like a moth drawn to a light bulb
Criss-cross my veins
take root in my heart
explore my bones
like an undertaker
dresses the dead
ignore the blackbirds
strung out like bowling pins
on my neighbors picket fence
competes with the sun
for my attention
awaken my senses
march like fire ants
up and down my skin

my body a century old tree
bends with time
leaves me a rag doll
on an invisible death bed
worn tossed aside
like leftovers
from a holiday feast

I an aging philosopher
a shadow within a shadow
an old Model “T” Ford
cranked-up for one last ride
each breath measured
like a gourmet recipe

my memory bank
a broken grandfather clock
it’s hands stuck at noon
stares into empty space
dead comrades serenade
my thoughts
words abound float aimlessly
at sea

sweet smell of orchids
take up residence in my nostrils
a secret chamber where
ladies of the night
fan my fevered brow

unwritten poems pass through
my eyelids travel down
my parched throat
deadly storms turn into
spring flowers
lift the weight of reality
bind to me like glue

heated emotions spill over
like a blown radiator
centuries of ancestors
piled-up like bones
in an elephant graveyard

an armada of viking funeral ships
sets a Frey course
a rainbow caresses the sky
points the way to nirvana

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