Thursday, 28 June 2018

Conversing The Angel

Conversing the Angel
(On Saturday Evenings in 63)

“You will always be a special memory to me:
No more and no less
than this.

And it is good you keep writing;
to hear that all is well with you.
Always one with words, you were
like the beginning of a song.
 No, nothing here is ever wrong,
beautiful, blue and no doubt warm.
It sounds like you are suited to a new life.
Always a smile when I think back.
Always a smile that I sometimes lack
when the thatch of my soul
won’t dry and crack.

Watch over him.
He will fly,
conquer all and won’t fear the angels.
It’s from the demons he must hide;
we will sooth him inside.


Just a few flakes,
but until the thaw
we must seal the door.
My red fingers rubbing raw
 your bloodshot eyes.
Here. Take this. Eat.
A beautiful rose for a beautiful soul.
You are forever engraved
in my heart, take comfort in that.
Don’t look back.”

“Your mocked up smile upon your lips,
within our dreams we somehow taste
from which we must retreat in haste.
Vainly waiting for a glimmer
your halo slipped without a shimmer.

I’ll meltdown no more.
Where’s the reason?
Madness is now out of season
as is love, passions, desires, thirsts:
when finally the heart boils and bursts.
If I can save him from vile angels,
demons will remain untasted;
if I can save him from the careless lies,
my life has not been wasted.
I thought love could find walks and ways
to splendor’s perfect perception,
but the façade that you now portray
is fraudery and deception.

I’d write a book.
If I thought you’d look.

I’d set down words and conjure realms
but they could never overwhelm
the studied indifference and twisted frost:
there amongst your lazy clichés lost.
I’ll find my own way out, thank you.
Through the exit door.
I will always be a special memory to you:
No more and no less.
I choose no more.”

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