Frank James Ryan Jr...FjR (A Collection of Select Works... / The City That Never Sleeps)
Standing over a presage I saw
an ocean carrying bodies cold
on jagged tide, occasionally colliding
and snapping joints like matchsticks
all in advanced riga state
stiff as smoked dry-iced...rising.
Could some I know be within my reach?
This I was thinking, as a telephone rang.
Oceans hold presage within their depths,
great epochs steering a world below land.
Breeding life, earth...housing the dead -
far deeper than those beneath carved stone.
I hear a voice cry that sounds too familiar,
then a chill of sudden still silence.
I awoke this morning to the sound of howling
and the gnashing of knuckles on broken glass,
a hideous scene to awaken to...and the news,
the news... made my stomach burn.
You drowned last night
in search of something.
We'll never know what,
we'll never know why.
I saw the ice, I shivered hard,
i leapt into the icy surf
through jagged blades
of cicled shard.
I saw your eyes
look back at mine;
I took your hand,
you smiled at me,
told me to leave
this abstract dream -
then said goodbye.
I awoke as you asked,
despite my fear...and presage
and here I stand afront your casket, closed -
asking myself so many strange questions;
questions that prompt no logical answers,
and all the while the scent of florals
penetrate my skin.
I walk outside, to light and take some drags
of deja-vu...as I exhale a curl of warm smoke.
And I don't understand,
dreams are very strange,
penetrating their visual impact
upon our Third-Eye,
echoing their message...their message.
I am not clairvoyant,
yet I swear on my soul
that I felt your hand,
heard your voice
you were okay.
Omen, presage....merely a dream?
Still You're Gone.
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