From where i sit

From where i sit, horses run across a flat black field, a sheen of dark water, the imagination roaming free, the word evocative. From where i sit, pebbles in a wooden cup. The music underneath the music. Always this longing, this sadness. But great sparkles of illumination, witness, radiance, the heart-felt joy.

From where i sit, a little pirate encased in plastic, far from sea. The soothing stops. The fire burns hotter. Some days you must be responsible only to yourself. The weather turns. Cobwebs mar the view. How long will it take to scatter them all? Sometimes the wind is its own fair music and it is enough. The greenery folds. I cannot meet your every need, nor you mine. Desire is a vast field. We will never come to the end of it. Some people think being plainspoken is a virtue. I say, where are your pockets? Where is your sense of pleasure, rhyme?

From where i sit, the words stack up like armies, intent on landscape, conquest, view. Sex, of course, is another form of conquest, but not like you think. The self is devoured. Meridian, understanding, they ask me to reveal them, the words, but they are flat eyes staring. I don't know the answer to the riddle.