alley #34

I cannot find
the poetry I had dreamt of
as a boy.

The wisdom of ages
is showered upon
me,
as
I
tremble and am told to sit still,
to watch and to speak,
to say little.

Trying to understand the
whispers of men who told me
they know more than I can.
The men whisper to me
words that are heavy
with smiles of the sorrowful.
I beg for more and doors I will never
enter are thrown open for me.

The memories of boyhood cluster around
seedy dreams of waking up. Sleep winds
past alleyways imagined as a child.
I weave through their grey insides and stumble
upon words from before.

The old are jealous of the young.

Children envy the past
that belongs to the dying.

Do you remember
when we walked
into the strange landscape
of cluttered words,
silent musings,
magic dust?

first-printed words

Still, though years have passed
and our paths have diverged,
my only reaction to those glorious
first-printed
words mirrors your disgust at
the adolescent discovery
of desire and the unknown. When those
simple sentences poured through
my closed eyes I worried of no parents
and judgements, no censorship from truth. A simple exclamation of the heart.
Yet that disbelief and shock rattle
past a mind struggling to reconnect
and all along you ask for another.
No accusation,
nor an explanation, just a simple acceptance
of the way the windows rolled up
every time we went out for a drive.