Aging Owl

by Glenn Marchand

The feud is with silence. The tales are old. The war is part due to denial. I was sleep watching. A foolish man, a restless portrait, a candle on a hot summer’s day. I tried. I disappeared. I was a person, looking for a person, the mirror reminds of the difficulty. On a farm, I imagine, a pair of cowboy boots, a few horses, and when the rain hits, it’s quite beautiful. Upon a silken scarf, a soul at memories, chameleons trying to aid sunrise. The guts make blame. Tragedy belongs to people. Each might search harder. The stages come to discussion. They’re not in order. One moment with peace, another moment, released to something like an island. The talking is in part pretending—How do we not pretend? As the existential increases—the flowers grow with weeds—the senses are thralled by an arcane force. Looking at a mirror. Thin clouds, falling gently, much a place—as to never return.