Clara

Unearthed a random poem I wrote months ago


Clara
 

No joy of mine will last in the drop of the cup
The slip of my step, the blink of my light
But hers is what weaves through the dark and the heat
Of that burning Mexican night

  The fool of her mornings
  The joke of her nights
  The butt of her laughs
  All of them I
  And all the oppression
  Of my year long fight
  Melts in the heat
  Of a Mexican night


Old man on the corner of the dusty road
Crying for salvation in the twilight heat
With the God of my parents, the God of my friends
The God of my intellect, but not of loose ends
To have some peace, I can hear him cry
To the sound of the Mexican night


  "You're a waste of breath,"
   My soul tends to cry
   Through the hollow spirit
   And coddled mind
   But she's still smiling
   Even if I cry
   Clara still dances
   In the Mexican night


And the heat is a reflection
Of the souls of its people
Like a cry in the wilderness of reason
We tend to not tremble, even when we should
Tend to laugh when we should cry
The God of my life says "a time for everything"
And after the sun sets, the tension builds
And falls in the heat of the Mexican night


  Am I doomed to despair?
  Am I the dust on her feet?
       Yet Clara laughed softly
       On that Mexican night

~Jared