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Floodgates with missing keys

by Liminality

I am afraid we have lost the keys to the floodgates

can you please come back another time?

We are running from one end of the corridor to the next,

rushing to close the hip high of water crashing

where it was not supposed to crash.


Irrigation occurs here one room, one room at a time,

my mother shouts me out the numbers

before the water comes gushing from one room with the tidal

eccentricities of the whole atmosphere in one room,

in this weather-defying tourist location -- charming, I hope?


Commander, commander, let me know

before you knock upon my door,  with this need for

directions and redirections of the mood in this place.

Our ancestors' portraits are a million phases of the moon

at once, scrambling the stages of life cycles and

uprooting us from our neighbourhood so we float

modern, post-modern, aeroponic.


She does not hold them in her hands

before she slaps a splat of plaster over

when she dropped a stone-statement and

it shattered that tile in the floor.

Now grinning pearly white teeth, saying she's fixed it, she's fixed it

hurry up. Once more.


And I run because neither good nor bad

the pattern of closing one door to open another,

rinsing the hallways of memories and multiple histories,

it is the way I can claim that I live, on my own, under my own sigil.


Father, father, watch me now. Father, watch me now,

watch me as I hold my ground,

I hold my ground, I shut the door, I turn my back

to the outside world of strange familiarities,

and face the familiar strangeness,

watch me now.


I pray my agnostic skepticism

drives me to plug all of the unnatural sinkholes

sprouting between damaged cupboards

and broken plaster walls.

This is my samsara, and I will gladly stay here

if only I could put together one more

altar to compassion.


We must look insane from the outside,

I know we must look insane from the outside,

only she doesn't care how we look insane from the outside,

and I'm realising that neither do I, and neither do I.

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Sat Jun 12, 2021 4:04 pm
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silented1 says...

This poem seems fun.

Be careful or be roadkill.
— Calvin