Separating the Image

Fine images
of a lover and children
and seedy yellow harvests,
would accompany me day-to-day
for withdrawals at the bank
or in lines at the heart transplant center,
until I realized, no,
waiting in lines
and for death
will go away completely
with a lock of my room,
where I’d still enjoy harvests,
a lover, and children.

Purple fields and skies
would sit beside me in logic class,
listen to grandma's pilled-out
manic episodes,
and mark dying deadlines
on the calendar,
until I realized, no,
commitments like these
to class and family
will go away completely
with a lock of my room,
where I’d still enjoy harvests,
a lover, and children.

The great indoors!
All of the day-to-day go-getting
replaced with purple fields and skies.--
--Horror horns may vomit
failures to appear in court,
but so what?--I have fields
to seal my lids upon,
and escape hardened life
in constructed skies.

How my throat tightened
when this creation darkened
and purples went light brown
and took away tweeting sounds,
and the lover became reserved
and then snuck out the door,
and children turned to dirt.

My gasping head of tears
screamed at the forever listening listener:
what world is this that I cannot make my own!
what world is this that demands,
“Do something, now! You’re in it!

You ran from the world
of cars, of lines , of scars,
and went into your head
of fields, of loves,
yet how the head is mirrored
and has not it’s own light,
apart from the turning ongoing world,
that blends all visions for your choosing.
How loutish your escape,
as if the moon were fleeing the sun
and screaming at its loss of light,

you’ll take it all back, or have nothing,
take birthing pangs of dull tasks again and again
with dying bodies and clamoring voices
and everything besides!”