Falling Slowly Poem by Oisin Vink

Falling Slowly



I unfold myself again-
The soft tap.
Perspex borrowed pen.
Pick me up with your paper knives,
The indirect slash,
For I have long resigned.
I have left this job, this house, this moment-
Touching upon the ground.
In search of something,
Something beautiful,
Something that's occasionally regretted.

A warm touch or a scar upon my arm,
That subtle butterfly wingspan.
It never left you see,
I take it in my stride.
Walk and roll,
Breathe, live, sh*t-
Play the game
(Always the gambling man)
It locked me out,
It never came.

For I am still standing here,
Twenty years in the making.
Pale and statuesque,
The pigeons have become tame.
Flutter, flutter,
Feather in my eye-
Rain dropp make me wretch.
Purge this town,
This cold floor
Filled with carpet
That chafes away at the very bone-
If only to make walking out the door an art
Within itself.

To do what one cannot do.
I never could tell, nor manage,
To paint the sea in another shade of blue.
Down beside the steps,
Where the water rolls and I beg,
Beg to recover you.
The crashes become obscene
As I watch the contents of my pockets
Unfold and stew.
I leave them here to decay; to dew.

I stand here waiting,
With the only picture I have of you-
Light it to ash,
One knee downward
(I never could tell)
Trapped inside of that blue.
I do, I do, I do.
Wed myself to that little pile,
Stacked full of God-
It never could do.

Time is an art within itself,
To end a sentence,
To break an embrace.
And so falls a tiny bit of skin,
Off, off it goes-
The sin the sin,
The love, the strung up jacket,
The bit of ash upon the mantelpiece
Remain akin.
You never favored me nor him.

Maybe there or a dozen or two,
Maybe we are going up,
Sailing away,
Through the head of the screw.

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