Diary of an American

“Since then ‘t is centuries; but each

Feels shorter than the day

I first surmised the horses’ heads

Were toward eternity.”– emily dickinson

at the end, the precipice.
no signs forward
no signs back
no bridge over
no wings to fly
only wide open black space descending
down away from the sky

Then a movement in the wind catches my eye
in this world of black and white
there at the crossroads the devil waits
under the black yew tree in the early night
waiting there for me under the rough yew tree
his black hat doffed, courting me once more
a secret love, it never dies
that long ago was born
And once again I see
Him calling softly for me under that dark yew tree
it is him there seducing
and pointing toward the precipice

behind this demon love
there a carousel appears
singing tinny melodies from forgotten Depression years

round and round she goes
where the children are nobody knows
there are only empty painted horses
and music no one hears

and I on knife’s edge teetering
as the carousel horses leer
they know you were gone forever
and also know you returned.
As you beckon smiling,
(a great black bird sweeps by)
in the bird I see your beauty in the greyness of its eyes
I contract, I fly… seeking you in flight
on we soar once again through the joyful black night

Morning comes, wind-music singing in my ears
I have not yet noticed that you disappeared
Gliding still there in the sky with you I am a bird
and then I notice
no more carousel and
No more grey eyed man of flight.

spinning
arcing
wheeling
falling out of control
I stare alone down the windshear precipice once more
and hear the sudden clicking slide of pebbles
falling down this deep dark hole

where do you go
when love is flown and taken truth and
souls?

hitting bottom, I shatter.

©diane o’leary 2007