The Rivers of What I Can’t Forget.

River of lone which grabs the bloodied, hanging bough upon a wisp dead tree
Where the darkened deep sea could bring me the tears from a shattered rock that shadows the sun,
As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom
Would fall dead at the bed of falling leaves that holds the lost womb of the willow tree,
That lovely stem from leaf where no river should pull along the tusks of ground,
And it should not break away from a frail dream. Why, must it be the river stream,
That curls along the frosted beams of the old axletree where it will be dried by the fog,
Where it will surrender to the slippery tears on a marred charcoal rock,
That has moss on it with little sticks, little sticks. It was a cold night.
The twig ties into the wilting wind where it will stay as the sea does when it goes,
And I’ll be on the river ended part where it can caress the sweating logs, and it can hold the red steep; and it can blemish upon the crevice which presents a winter fest, free phantom,
And it will float on dead waters.

River, river, it went into the hours that part like fig seeds, or the blanketed flowers in a summer garden that will wash upon the stonecrops—and they would never wilt upon a mid-dream,
And it will be the rivers that go through the seas, and their fair trilling feet that rests upon twigs or branches, those bloodied boughs that folded like frills that bent through the shores that expel
The death of a long lit star that was once made of bygone powder that surfs through a universe,
And will be down into the deep ocean one day.
It will stick with me as the gliding rocks that suffer through the rivers of what I can’t forget.
Lone river dusk falls through an autumn dark night, where I sleep as a red plant grown from seed, and I will wake on the seaside and surf through the torrents of a dream. It would be warm like the roasted honeysuckle from the sun beams that crack through their stringy petals.
They would be perched with white hairs of leaf, and they’d be grown with a blush of reddened dirt;
and it would pass me by a tranquil shadow that would leave when the avenue sign could be glistened upon from the warmth that pangs the morning, from the morning that lets me dream.

The flowers that gave under the autumn reign, and they pass through the warmth of the fragile willows, like a dandelion wind that holds a frail leaf of a rash white, blossomed from an ocean orchid petal leaf that leads to a dwelling premature river. River of what I can’t forget,
What reads through the wind and glistens through a winter wind that was sleepless to the dead waters,
And what goes to the juvenescence that will be the time, the time of a sheaf remembrance
That follows the wailings of the memory. It breathes through the beats that drip from wind onto leaves that fold as lappets, when called, when left. What must it be to the senseless winds that return upwards, and that when left, they hang onto the tags of skin, and give shivers.

River, river, forgetful river, will the willows give or will they bend in the air, a wallow air? Who knows upon the boughs above a darkened river where it drifts through the dins among the night?
It was a cold night to the forgetful river that twitches like the sprouts upon a twig,
And it will go against the wind where the ocean moans, as the light begins to fade upon a blemished leaf;
The twig ties into the wilting wind where it will stay as the sea does when it goes,
And I’ll be on the river ended part where it can caress the sweating logs, and it can hold the red steep; and it can blemish upon the crevice which presents a winter fest, free phantom,
And it will float on dead waters.

© 2019 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.



Categories: Poetry

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2 replies

  1. Reblogged this on By the Mighty Mumford and commented:

    SUCH MAGICAL WRITING—SUCH A GIFT! ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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