Sense of Scenery

‘Totems of the Seven Shrinking Worlds’



‘Totems of the Seven Shrinking Worlds’


To be of seven is a window, clean

In the glass you can look right through

Out, inside the window of glean

Upon the glass a hue

And there wherewith you on winter days

The cold outside cures the gleam askew

The world, it grows; the wind, it blows

Your mind in flux and cues

To be of seven is the shadow cast upon the dead cement

As black as drains, in tunnel veins

Down the spout we’re sent

And nothing is but suffering inside the hearts of men

You hear the day in such a way

That nothing said is meant

The adult, it roams in moody drones

These giants of their own slurred realm

Tugs gravity and polar streams through thoughts they desperately drown

And Spring arrives in sequenced tides

In waves much like a dream

Your mother might take your hand, we walk

Through the dangers of the street

The houses are bone and the building’s, meat

The system connects with you

Where everything is shadow-cast

Under skies, this mysterious blue 

Something’s are for trafficking

Something’s are not for your eyes

Your mother’s hand, the warmth of Gods

The honey of the sacred hives

This language of the night topples upon

Your bed, it shrinks, it constrains

And everything will become less real,

Yet somehow it remains

And much like waves, seasons and tides

Upon it, the edge of knife

But the tombs of drains and tunnel veins

Will haunt you for the rest of your life


-SD, 4/15/11