Moral Of The Story

So many questions
left unanswered
as I fall back into
the frozen hands
of the atomic clock

What is this story
that I am trying to tell?
Past these tired eyes
the planes and peaks
of the evolving countryside
speak to me in foreign languages
as I weep with joy
in the realization
that I am
just a figure
of speech
in my story

And with so many things
left unfinished
started to quick
and not thought of
all the way through
I carry on
bleeding and blocked
through the dialogues
of conspiracy
hoping, perhaps a little foolishly
that I am getting
that much closer
to figuring out
the moral
of the story

———————————————————————————
You Grew Up

See me running backwards
and you
stop dead in your tracks
I call out to you without
ever turning my head around

“When did this cease
to be a game?”

That was a good question
and you knew it
but the birds were chirping
louder than I was
(really, it was just echoes that you were hearing. The birds
were like stars, gone for a long time now)
And your window remained
wide open, even though
the weekend was dead now
and your work-
your constant cycling through
the melting clocks-
wanted all the nutrients
in your bones and in your
smile
but I wouldn’t let you
give it up, not
without a fight

But the decision
wasn’t mine to make

And neither
was it yours
apparently

———————————————————————————
Into Madness

Something was said
that rattled the foundations of
universal speech, a glitch
in the dialogue of our
internal stars
The cosmos quake behind the eyes
of ears stationed on the moon
where the pollution of noise
is usually not as bad
as in the cities
in my shoe
Some kind of phenomenon
is making waves in the words spoken
in now dead languages
as something else lays waste
to our dreams
What entity spoke those words?
What is making
all this noise?
Who planted the barrier of sound
between the ear-canals
and the symphony of birds and
clouds and other forms of truth?
Who else but ourselves
would have any kind of
emotional investment
any kind of fear or reservation
about the impact of truth and knowledge?
Yet again it seems
that we have talked ourselves
into madness
rather than talking ourselves
into joy

———————————————————————————

Milkyway

Not many stars
that I can see
but the brightest points in the sky
speak directly
to me
a familiar voice
carried far
through empty
and desolate time
reminding me
of who and what I am
and where
I am going

———————————————————————————

Sam Burks can be reached at srburks@gmail.com.