Jason Visconti
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HISTORY
One year per memory.
A wooden plaque you look back on
and own. A dangerous stairwell
drifts up the landings
into the future. The past
backs you up into a corner.
You fight off shadows.
The difference between now and then
is a grain in the sand-- a turn of the hourglass.
History is a beautiful woman undressing
showing you her scars.
BLINDED
Hands black out eyes
and one's blinded.
Palms press down like nothing
one would know.
Fingers spread and the world is seen as slivers.
It's these slivers that make up life.
Ahead darkness, but the city sleeps without you.
A weave in your hair falls in your face seductively
and one can't see.
You're a child who runs aimlessly through a forest.
And everyone looks like me.
HEREDITY
Blood lines join again.
They cross like bows stuck in hearts.
A one-way heartache. The sun shines on a gene
and makes it more. A forest of eyes blink at you--
and only you-- the one true descendent.
You're known by the mark on your hand--
your pitter-patter of footsteps--
your last stand in the morning facing the mirror.
And yet the individual fails you all your life.
Jason Visconti has been writing poetry and fiction since he was 15 years old. Now 33 years old and
attending writing workshops, he still enjoys creating unique imagery in his work. He has been published
in various internet and print journals for both his poetry and short stories and has a poetry book
published called: "The Death of Equal Handshakes".
One year per memory.
A wooden plaque you look back on
and own. A dangerous stairwell
drifts up the landings
into the future. The past
backs you up into a corner.
You fight off shadows.
The difference between now and then
is a grain in the sand-- a turn of the hourglass.
History is a beautiful woman undressing
showing you her scars.
BLINDED
Hands black out eyes
and one's blinded.
Palms press down like nothing
one would know.
Fingers spread and the world is seen as slivers.
It's these slivers that make up life.
Ahead darkness, but the city sleeps without you.
A weave in your hair falls in your face seductively
and one can't see.
You're a child who runs aimlessly through a forest.
And everyone looks like me.
HEREDITY
Blood lines join again.
They cross like bows stuck in hearts.
A one-way heartache. The sun shines on a gene
and makes it more. A forest of eyes blink at you--
and only you-- the one true descendent.
You're known by the mark on your hand--
your pitter-patter of footsteps--
your last stand in the morning facing the mirror.
And yet the individual fails you all your life.
Jason Visconti has been writing poetry and fiction since he was 15 years old. Now 33 years old and
attending writing workshops, he still enjoys creating unique imagery in his work. He has been published
in various internet and print journals for both his poetry and short stories and has a poetry book
published called: "The Death of Equal Handshakes".