In daisy fields of happiness, mountains from my sadness, I wander through rivers, aimlessly into dreams, into the sky I made out of poetry, drunk on the feeling of being alive. The pleasure grows in between my legs, every time I think about sex. My mind is submerged in the desire, the pervasive city fog. My watery eyes widen when I see the clouds above, when I ignite in the cloudburst. The heavens rain down on me, so effortlessly. I wash the grey matter from my hands, the alluring scent from my body. I fold as if I'm the lapel, the wicker ready to mold. I am made from atomic particles, regretting what I said, how I acted on impulse. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have soaked in the landscape from the optic, as Billy whispered in my ear. I blocked out the white noise of the television static, I thought of the lush sunlight on my skin, the cool lake water, the view from the mountain summit. The nostalgia is painful.
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Author:
Jordan Cash (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 24th, 2021 17:29
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 57
Offline)
Comments2
Very expressive and engaging read
Thank you!!
Wandering is exactly what you are doing here, wandering though images and emotions and memories. By the way, the "algia" in nostalgia means pain, so yes nostalgia is painful! Thanks for sharing your reverie.
When I was writing this poem and wrote that the nostalgia is painful I didn't even think of that, although I do think I've heard it before when I was researching fibromyalgia. Cool piece of trivia. Thanks for reading.
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