I Am Poem by Bengt O Björklund

The sky’s sea fading bone
is a fight for fetid clouds
and intrepid winds to settle
with their air pockets full of similes
grinning at time’s watery grave.

Truly tangled is a warm hide
breathing softly beneath contortions.

Dare not fall in nights of wrath,
dare not to call bright wraiths
to the dark siege of all ending days,
of all overlapping moments
that shape the slow snow falling.

Truly tangled is a warm hide
breathing softly beneath contortions.

My love is a blithe care’s icon,
a slow dissolve of all city cries
that pries into the delving,
a muted call that dies
before all initiation.

Truly tangled is a warm hide
breathing softly beneath contortions.

Thus the story unfurls its bony tail,
the symphonic play
disbands and displays dark glory.
It is time to mould
that which is not crude clay.

Truly tangled is a warm hide
breathing softly beneath contortions.

To dare all dark incitements,
flights no caring cove can heed,
feeds no flare, no fight
nor bare needs that could light
the chance to let it bleed.

Truly tangled is a warm hide
breathing softly beneath contortions.