An Imprint

You only know

an imprint of me:

a whisper

or a harsh word.

I caress like the sea,

I've all the madness of the Sun.

The anger in me

peels like a rune,

as the Moon,

a stranger on the run.

You only know a side of me;

less like a coin,

more a regular solid.

A platonic shape,

with shades and grooves.

I'm birdsong, and yet squalid,

a rushing wave,

the invisible crest of a ripple,

a seamless green glade,

the nut of a lover's nipple.

I float with tiny levity,

am drawn by such harsh gravity;

the trees and sky call to me,

the buildings and roads call to me

in a fell and whisperous malady.

I lend my ears,

give my tongue,

I'm standing on a lower rung.

I'm torn between sung and unsung.

I'm on the rack. At the front, at

the back. In the light. In the

gloom. In a room.

I am borrowed,

I am loud, I am

madness, I am

peace. I am a white and

naive beast, a soft and jagged

fleece. I am a smile and a star

winking hot and cooling fast.

You only know an imprint,

a side of me, a thumbprint

with a fractured edge, broken

in touch, or lack of it.

Everything resides in me:

the brakes and the alacrity.

P.S. I don't know what the fuck this is: it kinda got a bit out of hand! But I hope you like it nevertheless.