The Birth of the World

It happened so many times before

In so many ways

In the commonplace of a star-filled sky

a corner of eternity broke free

to become another world.

 

it was as if nothing extraordinary had occurred

nothing had changed from “E” to “mc2.”

and night would surely turn to day

just as it always had and will.
it was a Sabbath of sorts

in the heat of a month without a name

when the world was glowing green

while the universe looked the other way

without a second glance.

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The Horse He’s Sick

 

Sick of the steeplechase

(always last)

sick of the slaughter of the battlefield

(the first to die with legs shot off)

sick of carrying the load

(for others, everyone, but not itself)

sick of the whip, the saddle,

the spur

(not yet the hook)

sick of this equestrian life

(but but not quite dead)

sick of being sick

the horse, like me, is sick

of being

a horse.

Ghost of a Genius

 

Long gone

a genius of a special kind

scarcely a footnote

in never-read, worm-eaten texts

who found the meaning of all life

in a bottle-full of gin

he became

a question in a game of trivia

“Who was the first

to walk on fire and eat a peach?”

he knew the reason and the cause

of each and everything:

why the earth was flat

how man evolved from birds

how to speak to plants

and consummate a verb

and now he is a ghost

of a ghost

of never-been

a genius of sorts

in an after-life his own.

 

The Hope of a Condemned Man

 

“Hope is what it is,”

thinks the man condemned:

a story book for children

an empty prophecy

made to appease the fear

of the after and the after

of the after-life

not even as real

as an image on a screen

when the lights are dimmed

the curtain raised

and disbelief

suspended in the air

for an instant

before its world is lost

in the darkness

of a vacant place

without a shape or name.

“Whatever it is,”

he says to himself,

‘it isn’t

any more than

they will be akuve

when I am gone.”

See more art from Aimee Cozza  www.aimeecozza.com Interview coming soon…