if rambo sewed curtains
instead of his arm
what strength would he
place in the cotton,
resilience to tugs and pressure
from a climbing cat
or a child wishing
to see snow from a
winters window,
it need not be war
it need not be pain,
sometimes curtains close
out the things we wish
not to see,
but does rambo need
to sew them every time
Rambo
jeweled tombs of once visionary eyes
that had lost fiery lightning and the moon,
withdrawn no supernatural
accomplishment,
as symbols of obscure hours
watched with a disdain for light
becoming soiled by the soul
with august sorrows,
mankind knew of many merciless rulers
who used terror as supreme power,
rebellion awakened from stubborn sleep,
imagination of those
seeing a future others had not
next morning would have many suggestions,
vanity would not nurse emotion
bullets would not be kissed by lips
that spoke of treacherous dreams,
music of voices spread over cities
and blue skied landscapes,
plans conceived with tears
and women taking widows veil,
television messages and distortion
vulgar external eyes
hands folded on lap
pretend subtle debate and interest
whilst buildings burn
assured rocks thrown
defiance not disguised,
all interior tragedies have those warriors
the fallen and fables,
but all endings are not the same
for that you have to wait
for winters grasp
moon in nightspace became silversmith
light hammered over island
catching the nudity
i kept vigil over,
a saddened animal
hunched in an undergrowth habitat
i fed on something that dreams give
as i watched
her polished by tides overwhelm,
i could of been a nation on it’s knees
waiting for that one that comes
and brings a substance,
yet too afraid to show yourself
for fear of spoiling a grand occasion,
damp skin
natures jeweler working diamonds on,
a martyred bird called out
shriek of the night
she turned and i was certain of being seen
my eyes would be vivid in the darkness,
retreating with a tread so soft,
knowing as you saw swept long hair
i would not possess
despite the urgency of my loins
without satisfaction i would have to wait
as this was not the night
landscape seen by standing eye
on wind stripped rooftops edge,
answers pilgrims of nausea
fall as if from the depths of the sky,
horizon alone with forest
sun faced green silk and gold,
tracks of those who journey in faith
into the still of wooded glade,
within voices imagined
brambles pulled by enraged fingers
mess and tangle hide
that place used as a remote hope,
he should be there
pale faced
emotions a fountains stream
pleasure would not be found
with slackened vines,
this horizon embraced him
pulled into its complex afternoon
where time lie down
petal seconds fall,
chaos is not for choosing
sleep will not be heeded
as these files of thought
are put away,
staunched by class,
those in power jailers to tomorrow,
gas would fill indecent blue
and many more would fall,
for the sake
of secrets of kings
wordle
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