Friday, March 18, 2016

Michael Keshigian- Three Poems

He stands beside the window
and stares at a feathery cloud
in the shape of a beautiful woman,
the wind’s sighs
become warm breaths upon his neck.
He bleeds through the glass
like a forlorn ghost
and drifts upward for companionship,
glancing downward, noticing
the neighbors’ yards are empty,
drenched in abundant sunshine,
like him, at this moment,
radiant and satisfied.
He soars, her vaporous arms await,
there is little he can do.
He has traversed into a fantasy
that extracted him
from a deep melancholy,
salvation without warning,
a mechanism triggered
to curtail another bout
with irrepressible despair.

He stared into the shattered hand mirror,
the one that was whole
within its plastic frame
before it hit the tile
upon the bathroom floor,
introducing him to the multitude
of fragmented idiosyncrasies
that made up his persona,
each exhibiting expressions
of varied thoughts and fears,
gawking as if he possessed
the power to squelch
their rabid necessity for attention.
Overwhelmed, he extinguished the light
and departed the wash room
to obscure their many
imploring faces,
cloaking their eyes with darkness
so they might not perceive
his disinterest,
their shadowed shapes fading,
intense gazes diminishing
as he floated trance-like
toward the bedroom
through the darkened evening mesh
as leaves tend to do
upon a windy summer dusk,
onto the mattress into deep slumber,
problems unsolved
until reflection in morning light.
Whatever the great seers predicted
or the philosophers decreed,
he took no heed
of the signs advancing age
slowly revealed.
He worked diligently
through the summer doldrums
and winter carnage
while a clandestine wind
hovered amid the trees,
blowing lifeless remnants
through the streets,
remnants that irritated his senses
and instigated
his own eventual disintegration,
though he hardly noticed
for youth, hope,
and a magnanimous dose of vanity,
conveniently camouflaged the design.
Long summers of leisure
and lakeside frolic were his,
trophy gifts, intense affairs,
and monetary stability 
provoked an ignorance of the inevitable
even as living between the gravestones,
real as they appeared,
rendered him no closer to the end
than it did to his beginning.

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