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June 17, 2015

Don’t turn around, it’s too soon, too raw. Just stop for a minute and wait, think, listen. Time crept up on me and stole something precious. A jewel of sorts, a thing of abundance and joy. I’m here now, holding your hand, reaching out. Can you feel my breath on the skin of your cheek? Can you hear the sound of my tranquillity dripping away? No, of course you can’t, you’re dead and I’m alive, I love you and you don’t love me. Sadness, so much sadness leached into one heart. No crimson joy, no pink blush of a new dawn, just the burden of too many spent nights. I would rescue you now, again and again I would draw you into my arms, your hair spilling and cascading, the scent of you. You loved me once, it was plain by your smile, by the way you held my words and touched me. You craved me like oxygen, wanted me to spend myself inside you, to sit next to you and dream our dreams. I dreamed and so did you, but none of them came true. There was a tsunami, a wave called life and it all fell down – our castle, our monument of faith. The sceptre broken, the rod split, the precious necklace spilled and broken. I cried for that, cried for you, my great loss. I played the game and lost, my knight taken, my bishop shunned by the queen of fate.

There are salamanders here, rugged stone-born creatures that creep and crawl. They scare me because they are in my head, reaping the harvest of negativity and fear. An god there’s so much fear. A rasping exhaustion, an unglamorous stampede of passion that spends itself on the jagged, dark rocks.

Some people say I m a guardian, a cheap reminder of all they have lost. I’ve lost you – I remember your hair. I’ve lost you – I remember your laugh. Love was such a Burdon, a tragic price to pay. Too much passion and not enough time, too much time and not enough understanding. You understood the secrets, the moon and the star. You took me under that wing of gossamer and feather and made me warm.

And now it’s too late, we rented our space and now we are evicted, hearts on the street like savage versions of what could be. And now I turn on the computer, remark upon this and that. I salvage poems, unravel rhyme. I collect words and vast baskets of wonder that I tread upon until there is sense. And sometimes it comes alive, sometimes I live, a sprouting, glistening flower that remarks to the wind. No poison here, no garlands of grey, just making, doing, getting-by. There’s a horse and cart, a plodding grandier to the everyday chores. I don’t gallop any more, I haven’t the wind, the breath ,the glory.

I think of you often, salvaging the past, remaking old beds and re-dressing old wounds. I wish I knew you. Paid attention to the clock, the ever ticking memory of what could be. But I didn’t, I was too busy in the moment, expressing divinity through lips and mouth. You stood near me once, your face close, closed, close again. I hosed you down with milk and honey. Made clumsy advances by using profound words. And sometimes the rainbow comes, gleaming, arching, making the day bright and fresh. A glamour, a figment, a thing of beauty. Premastering life’s temptations, reaching out, the ring on your finger. Try to touch by failing to connect. Like new machines, Satan’s glowering harvest of tick and tock. I can’t see you now, I’ve polished away the cares, taken the tablets and forgotten your silk and satin skin. I plunge away down the waterfall, aching for new warmth. I transcend old glories by forging fires of pain. By drowning in the doing, and never seeing the thief of our time.

Sandals scratch the marble floor, heels click and feet slap. A discarded swimming costume, a cold damp thing that once clung to warmth. A garbage of letters, a jumble of sentences. A clicking key that opens too many doors. You push your way in, you stack boxes against exits and trap the loser. A jester, a folly bell rings. A tower of grey stone that is filled with lonely songs. Around the grass grows tall, covering the broken lances of the lost. They came here, tried here, died here. They clattered across road and bridge, looking for the eyes that shine with so much beauty. They all came to you, fell at your feet and died of love sickness. A trauma, a winding road to nowhere but back.

Choke back the tears and strangle the cry that wants to exclaim too much and too little. She makes sharks you know. She weaves the threads and sews the skin. Inside her menace there is salvation, drowning in the sea of her smile there is only loss. Come with me, be brave, hold my hand. Let us plunge of this cliff and drop to our knees. Prayers fluttering into the sky like bats. Bats fluttering like prayers. We are the lost, the lonely and the brave. We are the ones with nails in our shoes and holly in our breasts. Our eyes full of the shadow, the creeping lethargy of yesterday’s spell. There are dragons here, beasts that wait. Don’t look on them, remember the words, the clotted cream of commitment.

Shoulder to shoulder the angels come, raving down, plunging in, swords bright, guns brighter they slay the wolves of ingratitude and fly away into the pink dusk. If you follow them you are damned. If you stay you are lost.

Ajax was here, farmers trod the dirt and lightning sparked the sky. Behind me they rise, run, grin, legions of carpenters each with a painted cross. Jump around, high, higher, feel the breeze beneath the soles of your feet and hover for a while. Glimpse eternity through ruby spectacles, tinted glories and sullen hues. There may be love here, around this jagged corner. There may be a hand, kind and soft. Shattered hearts of ice, brittle as iron-clad jelly. Swim and be grateful for the water’s kind embrace. When you are ready dry your body and come with me to the glowering cliff of red granite. Sponge away the cuts and ice the bruises. There is healing to be had, bandages, ointment and magic. Slim pickings, get greetings, lie upon the green earth and re-breathe the day. Tell me many tales, remind me of our lives, where we came from and where we are going. Plunge downwards and look upwards, the bird is flying and it is us.


From → Fiction, Poetry

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