THE GRASS THAT GROWS BENEATH MY FEET - CONCEALMENT – FOR BARDS

In my room
I always secure that place
where many lost hairs lie
streaming away senselessly
seeing able sights,
to strike and to strike more

and more fear into eyes,
sounding as serpents which,
sloughing their skins
bite their own burgeoning bodies
in closeted confusion.

In my room,
I build my own bonds
to break them, bushel them
and bind my stranger limbs
if limbs you can label them at all.
And I wait for one winding stairway
to open up in my walls - to escape

into eternity, forever.

In my room,
I sing all sailors’ sirens’ songs
in bits and bits and pieces

from pottery shards shaded

beneath the successful earth
reminding me of an ontogeny –

There was once an ounce of omniscience
lurking in these now leaking, luckless lands.
In my room, there is eternity

clad in ennobling ennui.

In my heart,
there is a pace that I have plastered
onto my poor life of loneliness
ruled over by a wondrous worldly wisdom.

I walk from wall to wall
wafting my wasted senses in hope,
expecting my eternally shelved stairway

to grow as the grass beneath my feet grows,

in the silentest, most significant

manner of manifestation.