Jeffrey McCambridge (08/19/1985)
He sits upon his thrown
Free of metaphor and myth
Ruling all he sees with
A fist made of feathers
Or some other soft substance
I have seen a familiar man,
Growing old in many mirrors.
Many faces belonging to one
With so many stories to tell,
But none come to mind
Bare witness to all things
Both average and mundane,
The weight of the dew upon
Morning grass, morning’s rise
From beautiful pits of darkness.
This sad and lonely Adam
Cast forth, alone and aged,
Aware only of mortality in the sense
That flowers bloom brightly
Toward the sun before drying out.
Two fates merge paths from
Time to time, myself and the world.
Sometimes I envy you, others not.
Impassive and endless in consistent
Rotation, axis in motion.
Through the blackened gardens
Of exile of the heart he wanders
Head bowed from pride and place
There is no place for rest,
To walk the earth forever, bearing the mark.
The pure flame of the candle
Dances wildly, consuming its own
Life with its dance floor,
Wild with the passions
Of a fire well fed.
Heaven is a place I saw as a boy,
There were no glows or gardens,
And there remain no clear memories
Only the feeling of loss at not
Having been there for sure.
Comments about this poem (Drifting Sands by Jeffrey McCambridge )
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