Ben River

Learning inside out, a million journeys behind my eyelids,
rummaging through soil flesh of memory,
facing the true mirror, the reflection of all things,
kept in heart shaped boxes, sorted and packed in tight,
let loose to drift with the wind, and the candle burns at both ends,

In a never ending poem, our night fans spin through the day,
letting go of all gases, the wind takes us all out softly blowing,
light air whirlpool, of desires, a symphony of all things, of poverty in numbers,
Of a mother carrying child through the gutter, onwards and upwards, sacrifice, and self serving,

Humble beginning and humble endings, never fruitless,
always tingling through the daylight, hurtling through the bends,
Of a train filled with everyone, suits and ties skipping to the typewriter,
hoods and shoelaces following every step

The painting poets speak of is weaving through us,
dancing in our skin and wrapped in our bones,
the light inside is always waiting, glittering,
shining on in luminous glow,

The weaves keep weaving, in a story of angels on dirt roads,
laughing in all forms, childish games in struggle of earthly troubles,
yet forgetting such grief in merry abandonment,
over molehills and mountains of never ending chalk lines,
lines of words and numbers only bringing closer to the unspoken,
to the language inside,

Brick walls and paving, holding hands with the giant flowers,
teaching balance on our fields of glory, all the blood we’ve shed in too many wars,
lest we forget the war inside, reflecting the two sided coin,
the peace we shall find, illuminating globes and continents,

Many years may it be, but not a second too late, for all rivers lead to the sea,
and streets lead to our road, passing us by, pressing onwards,
leaving the flowers brighter, for tomorrows child,

Awash with you, you in my mind at all times, even when in the moment of now,
you are with me, first sight was too much to express, though express I will,
my thank you seems not enough, my path I will walk and find you I will,
your shivers in my spine, the yin yang uprising will not jade my eyes,
my skin will hold the child inside, never allowing for adult reasoning,
though children we are till the end of this time,

Growing is timeless, and time we are seeped in on this coil of our ways,
these etchings on cave walls I write on modern objects will soak in my flesh and I will remember.