‘Who Is That Bird at the End of That Rope?’, ‘Crisis in the Lighthouse’, & ‘Jack-O'-Lantern’.
Photographer - Tobi Brun
Who Is That Bird at the End of That Rope?
I feel as if I am always in camouflage;
Last of my species? Damned to this, fakery collage.
Another time, or place...a cruel fantasy.
Unique—a blessing tainted with insanity.
Retrained? On the verge of extinction? Already
Gone like the fabled dodo—or mass dignity?
I tend to glide above, while most seem to slither.
Ostriches is as close as I have gotten hither.
Seem to be birds of the feather—of flight at first glance;
Do elect not to fly, given the delusive chance.
Some seem to be rats of sorts; I rear to fly—soon
The ones who tramp, drag me to the gallows at noon.
Crisis in the Lighthouse
Reach my hand outside the lighthouse window. The haze,
Thick. An albatross lands on my finger—so vague.
All I seem to receive is omens as of late;
I feel like a mackerel; no relent—teased with bait.
Always riddled viz. "You will wake and be deemed blind."
I'm left to wonder; blind of the eyes—or of the mind?
Lighthouse keeper; beloved, nurturer of the flame;
Has no light to guide him; his black horizon to tame.
The blind leading the blind; or the delusional,
Who forgo the cane. His peerless sight—fictional.
Are the other keepers up the shore just as lost;
Finding sole solace in the verse of Robert Frost?
"I have been one acquainted with the night." What it
Is to be a keeper? Light the way—mind, dimly lit.
Save poor souls, from a fate you crave in seclusion.
Tame the wild ocean—or at least give the illusion.
My weapon against the sea—a lowly, lone match;
I should be on the other end of the "help!" dispatch.
Jack- O’-Lantern
I see my sanity roll off my fingertips;
Do they know how slippery it is? It seems that
They never risk it. A Mental apocalypse—
The mind endures; flames ravage its crevices; My
Cerebral disaster. Soon enough those who prey—
Pillage will arrive; gutting the pumpkin—bone dry.
They leave my face perverted; eyes jagged; mouth hacked.
Set fire to my core; Soul arsonists—no remorse.
Outlet for emotional pyromaniacs.
Used for one chilly night; then violently tossed
Down, the juxtaposing, peaceful dell; I roll—squash!
Left to rot, in a state of decay. Will I frost—
Or will I have decomposed by winter? From now
Till next autumn, my kind will be seen as passé.
No longer useful for laughs—scares. Death under boughs.
They wash their hands of my seeded blood; wipe the knife.
"This stuff never comes off." Longer to dwell—regret.
Throw the remains in the oven; burn off the life.
William Olson is a young aspiring artist in multiple fields; such as writing, music, film, and poetry. He also most likely enjoys John Keats too much for his own good, in this poetic landscape. He currently resides in Birmingham, Alabama.
