Friday, October 12, 2012
L. Edgar Otto Friday, 12 October, 2012
Awakened to a strange place
trying to make sense of what it is
On the scars and blemishes of my skin
a mirror when spring's gentle rain
Speckled with suns, I one with its face
a self-created stranger it seems
Or an artist, on that canvass, paint my dreams
echoed therein, a small space, safety, freedom in
Its boundless prison, head withdrawn tortoise
hidden retreat behind the miracle of a collar bone
Scabbed shell sensitive to touch, scratches worn, furrows,
wrinkles, plows the pecking birds write, cannot get to me
Fear frozen or head held high soaking up the sun
I can imagine beyond the darkness another stranger place.
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L. Edgar Otto 12 October, 2012
The little girl whispered in the fallen statue's ear
"All glory is fleeting, my Vladimir."
There's heartbreak as we gathered in the square or we just moved by the winds of chance, puppets without strings in blind and dreamy stares, was your heart there?
Did you make a difference modern man other than who lived and died in your day? Arrows not to fall but rise, destiny's pump primed thirsty for mystery, meaning in the wellspring made of space that a nameless faceless icons eternal standing with a token torch of Liberty against iron and dragon fire too learns that hearts can be forgotten.
A lever to machine and mold the earth made of lead or balanced revolution red in blood, that flood and front of fire, or walls of ice a weapon for those under siege...Viking swords buried with their welders, kneeling helmet horns and wings in prayer, what ancient race and tongue still there between the fatherland and motherland? What contradiction as the sand resets the hour in bells and towers? The chain mail pierced, her amulet of daisy flowers.
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