as a bank building,
tall and well-built
and
beautiful but with
very few openings.
There are two windows
for withdrawals,
and four windows
for deposits;
there are no doors.
There is
an immense computer
running data inside
and a staff of many
to interconnect
and to process
information.
There is
a very large storehouse
with knowledge,
memories,
literature,
scientific papers,
ancient stories
and poetry
and more;
well-catalogued
for easy access.
There is also
a large furnace
so that nothing
gets cold in
the physical plant
(as it’s known in bureauracracies) .
Since everything is
contained
and somewhat rigid,
the building reacts well
to some soft touches
and needs them
whether this is obvious or not.
There is a plan
and a structure for defense
against
the dangerous world
which can be activated.
This is somewhat how I see you;
you know that I have
immense respect
for all the knowledge
and connections you have.
Do you call them synaptic?
And would you be
able
and willing
to create a door
for little me?
© 2008 Rachel
my mother, the most beautiful of all.
You are on the carousel of the festival inside me
you hover around, your skirt and your hair flying
Mere seconds between finding your beautiful face and losing it.
What is the reason,
why do I remember you like a wound on my heart
what is the reason that I hear your voice when you are so far
and I can’t help getting up with excitement?
I kneel down and look at your hands
I want to touch your hands
but I can’t
you are behind a glass.
Sweetheart, I am a bewildered spectator of the drama
that I am playing in my twilight.
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Inside, I feel,
Volcano glows,
What passion this
That do I feel?
When you’re a dream,
Not even real.