The days and nights are long. A sadness that dares not be named. Hard hearts, all around. A few laugh, wrenched by one style. No longer able to live in a sea of love.
But you and I are sweet, not still indifferent. And I confess, that I will be kind to you. Like some other men do. A hope of bliss, before I finally dig my grave.
My worst dream, a night of fixed stars. And ghosts snapping their fingers, with tiger-painted nails. The night trembled to loose a trace. A shout rose out of the night, crowned by fire. And everything disappeared. Above the fear, above the night. Towards the other place.
Blinded by your infatuations and obsessions. The dark side eats at you. All you have left is your stillness. Lugged around from point-to-point. In the hope your dreams can burst the coffin. Do you remember helping the harvest? When walking was followed by poetry. And whole memories were swallowed in a moment. All this, under the dome of a lovers worship. These were the best days of our lives.
Millions of people watch the sky. Shedding all kind of identity. Dead by the street corners. Dead to the ends of their divided self. They think I am harsh, but I am only truthful. And death is within me. Wrapped in the warmth of her love.
Through pain and suffering, we continue. Others follow momentarily, a hundred miles behind. With awkwardness and disdain, they walk over them. But far from an English lair, still with fiery thoughts alight. They will not lay me down to sleep. Like a breath, we are in the right place. And there is an end to it. Everything shakes with our love and laughter. As the blackbirds caw their fierce surprise. Reading the words and weeping.
The road out is freckled with rust. Nothing glitters behind the masks. The medical students swallow the silent-potion. And no one can tell the souls of the dead, from those of the living. All that is left is profile’s shouting. A swarm feeble and cold, in autumn’s chasm.
The sky went grey, and then the snow. A cold that sunk to my soul. Once there was summer, the redness of your heart. Now, a brief touch, with a winter’s breeze. Leaving me there.
Hairline cracks, are beginning to show. Feelings burnt out. Asking why, there is no happy hour. My mind is tired. The burnt coffee is drunk anyway. These dark days.
A Wandering Poet 