The Dying Of The Young Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Voodoo is the dying of the young into
The apex of the overbearing yards—
It is the not allowing of my muses to have
A solace of their apathetic sanctuaries—
And the churches surrounding
Them are the resurrections my awful sea pulled
Back in total disregard—
And in its definitions nude fireworks—
Until high school comes again—soft lips sold
In the fruit markets of the overbearing sunlight—
Brown skin of
The muse that took my soul away—and turned me
Into the washboard of a yellow mule
In the graveyards the buzzards and their parson sang
Over, picking my bones beneath the satellites—
And in all of its kingdoms of unremitting
Glory, that are calling you through the collarbones
Of the careless holidays-
That in the breathless heavens there is still some
Sort of jubilee for you—
And I am at a loss, and throwing my pennies towards
The wishing well of a tortoise who is still trying
To pull the wishes from my bones—
And great about the insouciance over winning the race—
As I remember sailing feet first with you towards
The heavens of primary colors—of a red and then yellow
Helicopter dancing statically together over the
Vibrant sea where the mermaids have lost all of their
Names into the gambling that I am sure would not
Be if it was not for you.