Ashera Poem by Artchil Daug

Ashera



The things I do for love, as the cliché goes on
the stream of emotion that begets a man to follow the wings
of a photon and, as if by magic, travel across
the galaxies without even leaving the embrace
of one's predicament of becoming into many types
of men just to merge horizons, my sunrises and sunsets with
the flowers of spring that bloom in the meadows
of your smile that summer of great uncertainties

I am not a friend as though a toothpick that supports
the structure of your monument in a time of great earthquakes,
or that good 'ol marshmallow that acts as a soft cushion
in your lovely mouth after the cracking flames of your emotion

I am not your father who seeks to change the ramparts
of your being to my liking just as the great snake of the past
devour the sun in the hope of curtailing its energy and
letting what shows itself show in that manner that I want

I am not a spy that can forever hide in the shadow
of that bleak waiting shed, or in the illusion of sms messages
that buzzed through your cellphone screen every minute of the day
so I can remain a John Doe to those who reared you

I am not your teacher who preaches the way of the sacred ancients
in the matters of life and love in that cycle of translation
that caught your mind in a hermeneutic arc, imprisoning it
as though words and signs can move your stars towards mine

I am not defined with too much internet, dota and social networking
I am not content with the ideals and dreams of the carpenter
I am not a usurper of your emotions that arrest you by midnight
I am not those, for in the industrial garden of the lost Eden
I am the apple that God forbade and

the snake that ate the forbidding.
You are me as I you.

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