Oh carry me away from here my love
because the angels, even though they are still around,
are flying underground where they can be safe.
And there are black doves drowning in unholy lakes
of beer and non organic spittle while the afternoons
are haunted by the moans of lacerated dogs
and the distant weeping of Arabic children.
Oh carry me away from here my love,
away from the wooden hearts of carpenters
who erect temples that honour old stories,
sky blue mini vans and the curled fists
of immoral bibles.
I cannot survive these ice age days, these stumbling
ghost forms who shave in front of cracked mirrors
while humanity dances its bones nonchalantly
upon a stage surrounded by barbed wire.
I want a more delicate touch than the dark fingers
that poke their way through my bedroom walls,
perpetuating the sexually enticing conversation
of politicians and harlots, the visions of falling birds
or the hollow faces of spiritual mariners who collide
upon a shoreline of economic driftwood
while the lighthouse keeper sadly shuts off his light
and prays for the return of a garden of whales.
The earth vomits, the heavens drip with acidic sweat,
the world becomes a rancid oyster that desperately
tries to shed its unnatural shell
while the hands of historical clocks melt into a puddle
of chaos.
And while a serpent wraps its coils around the feet
of mythological gods I find myself wanting to reenter
my mothers womb where I can write a volume of verse
devoid of any kind of anxiety.
So carry me away from here my love . . . there must
be a road somewhere that leads back to the original tree
of knowledge, where there are no curbs smothered
in electronic dust, where the radium and neon cannot
penetrate my weary pores, where the devils
and the warlocks of war have been banished,
where the banjo picker of artificial posterity has
broken fingers, where the frozen blue room of loneliness
is filled with laughter and the smiling faces
of chickadees and infants swaddled in benevolent blankets,
where the shadows lingering
at the wailing wall of misery are allowed to dry their
tears, where the cracked lines of the planet are healed
by a new bride of consciousness and where the internal
chain around the heart falls away, leaving it free to
pulsate with the green blood of non materialism.
Yes, carry me away from here my love, because I fear
that I am fading fast . . .
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 9 of 9
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In my mind the greatest thing a poet can aspire for is to change people with their words and insight. This poem does that.
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Bountiful~Wise...
Salutations to Poet Marc Creamore.
Much gratitude for keeping the lights of Your Castle Poetry on. I have just met one of its gate's keeper by the name of "I Fear That I Am Fading Fast', and am truly impressed, as I was given the opportunity to have a general idea of this Castle's daily functions under the vehement power of its Master's poetic veins that are filled with ichor; and to see the Castle's garden.
I have enjoyed the reading of "I Fear That I Am Fading Fast', and as of now, I formally ask Your permission to keep on visting this Castle Poetry of Yours.
In respect and admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
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Heart touching write Marc. I'm at a loss for words but as someone
else say it draws tears.
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Another conquest of words,where brutallity fights tenderness.
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Marc, this piece while excellent is hard to read without blinding tears. I am one of those fools who recycles, composts, reduces, reuses, volunteers to clean beaches, etc…etc. Yet I looks around and the work to be done is overwhelming. Indeed this work in heartbreaking for sadly in is prophetic.
Bravo!
Marianne
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it is a good thing to find one's self by seeing beyond, to a wider view of the world and the people in it, how we court the very disasters we say we dread, life seems a mindless stagger when it might be a place of peace and understanding...well done, the voice can be a beginning too...PK
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journey by journey the monk beads follow humble and all the same lost soul...
w sunshine armchair and good stylish sunglasses
-Jas
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As always dear Marc this has such a poignant place for me, no matter what you write the love for this damaged world is so evident that it's heartbreaking to me that we all can see this yet most care to do nothing. I will always listen
C
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