The Grackle
The Grackle
Death resounds: a childlike surprise
of inevitable nature.
Irreproachable surmise grounds me
as I mature
and find
that I want to love and be loved,
and yet I waste my time
yearning for a taste of touch
more than I receive already.
I want to be touched by the sound
that passed a good while ago—
Such a sound that I’ll solely remember,
once my mother and father die.
I want to find a blind confidence
that I will escape the suffocation
of banality from exhausting reiteration
and over-annunciation.
I hate that I must trust in mild understanding
that time will pass and so will I.
If only hope was a plan and I was a man
with choice.
But I try to gather myself, an unimportant detail,
because no one stops, lamentably,
to ask why the caged bird gives a fuck.
And regrettably, we are all alone and melancholy.
We are all alone—and in that—there is community,
as we wait for providence.
But damned be an atheist still capable of crying
that he shouts “By God, sound touch me.
I want you to caress my bowed head,
and congregate around my temples
to delight me in a whisper haze.
Let me be the one who sees his future.
Let me know when I will die.”
But damn the man who won’t be a martyr.
And damn the man who once was a father and a son,
Who left a half-built legacy behind only to be
Immortalized as a raven.
David González Valles
2013 Effete Scribbler
effete scribbler 