The fading spring river, gives way to a golden wind that bends. And under the sea a poet becomes human again. For love and for hate, I say goodbye to the black winter trees.
How many stories do we deny of the flash and thunder. How many stories do we deny of the zing of bullets and thickening blood. How many stories do we deny from these houses of bones. People sleep or people wake. Yet, the wind always wails.
Enter the heart you said. It will be better for you. There will be days of purple flowers, all with root fibres. The seasons and the sun, will slowly turn. And you and I will discover ourselves, most faithfully. I looked at your flawless nudity, and wished again to be reborn.
This is not the sky, or even the moon – until I see you again. Then the silver cast of our stars, will make earth and heaven quake. Then the days will once again, be thrown back into the familiar. And be measured by bonds of love and hope.
This life that I have, it’s sweet flavour is never too much. A black cave or a red rose, I never took the lazy way. And the days as if they were air, I breathed in – and once more I slip my chain. Reaching out towards that light. The flame of youth, strong again in my eyes.
In the streets, crowds bustle – the jostling of shadows. Who can contain the stagnant silence, that gathers each day? I could write a thousand poems from this. But I choose to throw the shadows back, and walk off with the sky. I will carry with me, such wonders.
‘You look so lonely’ You said. ‘Sitting there on the bus’ I thought to myself, sometimes the days drift – like a sigh. But in the wink of an eye, I think of you. And spring breathes upon me.
In these dark times, I try and find a place. Away from the fear that is all around me. A place of wandering birds, and a blueing of the moonless air. And your arms, wrapping around me. Pulling me to a sweet surrender.
A cold circle, yet the rainbow returns here. How pleasing, with a pen in my hand. To see you in the black dress. Gleaming through the dark dusk.
Let us talk about death, or a plague world flashing from the window panes. All the days blending and boxed in. I breath inside my mask, waiting for you – still thirsting for your lips and touch. Smiling big, I still see our path to pleasure.
A Wandering Poet 