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The Bleeding of Dreams by Dean Charpentier
The Bleeding of Dreams Dean Charpentier for Andrea Gibson
“Who possesses a perfect soul?” — Rimbaud
I am reading Rimbaud onmy porch when I hear you have died. It is a thick July morning. The ceiling fan stirs a slow potion of lazy haze and the slow sun efforts to rise above the trees. The leavesare a muted green and gold. Tired birds sing.
My soul is patched and stitchedtogether, much of the mending amateurish and clumsy, but there is evidencehere too of your deft hand,your words woven into thin threads,sutures to stop the bleeding of dreams.
It occurs to me that you arethe answer to the poet’s rhetorical question:to remove the border between life and deathis to traverse the invisible horizon at the ocean’s end on a moonless night.
I am learning. I wield the delicate needle of your wisdom to sew up the hole you’ve left in my world, only to discover you’ve beaten me to it.
“Who possesses a perfect soul?” — Rimbaud
I am reading Rimbaud onmy porch when I hear you have died. It is a thick July morning. The ceiling fan stirs a slow potion of lazy haze and the slow sun efforts to rise above the trees. The leavesare a muted green and gold. Tired birds sing.
My soul is patched and stitchedtogether, much of the mending amateurish and clumsy, but there is evidencehere too of your deft hand,your words woven into thin threads,sutures to stop the bleeding of dreams.
It occurs to me that you arethe answer to the poet’s rhetorical question:to remove the border between life and deathis to traverse the invisible horizon at the ocean’s end on a moonless night.
I am learning. I wield the delicate needle of your wisdom to sew up the hole you’ve left in my world, only to discover you’ve beaten me to it.
More from Dean Charpentier ↓
- @mrcharps on Instagram
- His most recent publication: two poems featured in B O D Y literary journal
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By Maggie DeversThe Bleeding of Dreams Dean Charpentier for Andrea Gibson
“Who possesses a perfect soul?” — Rimbaud
I am reading Rimbaud onmy porch when I hear you have died. It is a thick July morning. The ceiling fan stirs a slow potion of lazy haze and the slow sun efforts to rise above the trees. The leavesare a muted green and gold. Tired birds sing.
My soul is patched and stitchedtogether, much of the mending amateurish and clumsy, but there is evidencehere too of your deft hand,your words woven into thin threads,sutures to stop the bleeding of dreams.
It occurs to me that you arethe answer to the poet’s rhetorical question:to remove the border between life and deathis to traverse the invisible horizon at the ocean’s end on a moonless night.
I am learning. I wield the delicate needle of your wisdom to sew up the hole you’ve left in my world, only to discover you’ve beaten me to it.
“Who possesses a perfect soul?” — Rimbaud
I am reading Rimbaud onmy porch when I hear you have died. It is a thick July morning. The ceiling fan stirs a slow potion of lazy haze and the slow sun efforts to rise above the trees. The leavesare a muted green and gold. Tired birds sing.
My soul is patched and stitchedtogether, much of the mending amateurish and clumsy, but there is evidencehere too of your deft hand,your words woven into thin threads,sutures to stop the bleeding of dreams.
It occurs to me that you arethe answer to the poet’s rhetorical question:to remove the border between life and deathis to traverse the invisible horizon at the ocean’s end on a moonless night.
I am learning. I wield the delicate needle of your wisdom to sew up the hole you’ve left in my world, only to discover you’ve beaten me to it.
More from Dean Charpentier ↓
- @mrcharps on Instagram
- His most recent publication: two poems featured in B O D Y literary journal