Behind The Final Curtain Poem by Eric Cockrell

it is then only this....
the bark peeled from the ancient tree.
the yowl of the cat in hunger,
the slap of wings against gone.
tis the height of passion;
i have turned my deepest colors,
yet my dreams have begun to fall...
i cant stop them.
and the sound of voices like hammers on tin,
be the bottle broken before it hits.
when memory becomes history,
and tired clouds wink and disappear.
the setting sun tastes of vinegar,
as smoke rises in wistful plumes.
and beliefs crawl in empty nests,
while squirrels madly drink and die.
as holiness runs like rain,
down the trunk and into the ground.
the sacred dance of the senses,
while lovers touch in secret closets.
and the world pregnant with desire,
waits behind the final curtain!