PERCEPTION

At midday you see no depth
only ripples on the sand
But when the afternoon sun
drags its light over the dunes
all depth is magnified
The little footsteps have become caverns
and the ripples are troughs
Long shadows creep over the sand
And in this circling twilight
The tiny becomes huge
and the hills become flat

Perception is a passing hour
Flatness is amplified and the dunes are stretched
You look at your landscape
and find your landmarks are all gone
The structures that dwarfed you
are no more than shadows you walk upon
And the things you thought
were solid and permanent
Have been traded for a cold drink
And all you have to remind you
Is the sand in your pocket

Selig

THE TREES OF AGONY

In the trees of agony dwell the secrets of our lives
And for each green leaf that grows, so too, spouts a thorn
Full of the poisons that burn in our vanity, our humanity
Too raw to eat, the fruit still too green, to fulfill or nourish

And so we leave it hanging, the branches filled with fruit
Go about the chores and revelry that make a life
Forget about the sapling that bears all we know, all we fear
Decorate our lives with plastic planters and blooming perennials

Only to find that when we need it the most, the fruit has rotted away
The leaves have turned brown, fallen to the ground at our feet
Trunk twisted and knarred, choked with mosses and molds
Songbirds rotting on the cold, damp ground

The winter of our lives is here, the realities cold
As a dead lover’s kiss from the casket of last resort
The vampires dying from the poisons in our blood
No more heroes, no more John Wayne, no more Kate Hepburn

I bury myself alive in my shame and my sorrows
Confident I will arise from the dead, my feet and hands scarred
Give over to myself, let loose the bonds of perception
Revel in the paint of joy and agony, my blood striped colors primary

In the trees of agony dwell the secrets of our lives
But it need not be the forest of our demise
For every ring we grow about our trunks makes us stronger
Every branch, wiser, every apple, more delicious

And ask me again in a thousand years how I managed
To not prick my finger or scab from the needles within
To not lose faith and surrender to the temptations of revenge and sorrow
To face into the wind and piss, if only to irritate God

And I will tell you that I simply stopped believing in the finite
Let the reality that life is a tree of thorns we hang upon
And, only if very, very lucky do we find another
Who will walk with us in the orchards of our lives

Pick fruit, from the ground beneath the trees of Agony.

Rick Sheeley

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