Ryan James

 

Counting Dragons.

 

Counting Dragons.

 

 

Exhaustion set in and I float through the patterns of sleep.

I covet the black counting dragons not sheep.

I carve dreams into mud and watch the great mother weep

as she sweeps todays insults of unresolved streets.

Intentionally I reach for nothing

to feel the wind between my fingers.

I play on soundless pockets of air

and chaos gives way to my silent symphony.

You and I are much the same.

Binding our identities to opened garden gates

so bees may have their freedom to roam.

This is written in my bones.

Gargantuan this whisper in this web of time

“He only cried when I ate him.” said the spider about the fly.

Who else knew of their love

and like all love it's blood is fierce.

Living in the moments between the ticking of the clock

light piercing through the pin hole camera's.

My life this new lens.

I am the stone swollen from the river around which light bends.

You and I are holy now.

These are our new feet.

We must remember the histories of blades of grass

to find ourselves here,

complete.

Leave a comment:

  •