Anathematized
I
leave my mount behind
when
winged predators
would
only run him off.
Scents
abound in this thorned forest
of
blackened trees and dried tears.
Children
led me here,
though
they have long since run home.
She-
she
who awaits in timeless,
deathlike
slumber-
she
is pale and perfect and forever young.
Suitors
have abandoned her prone form.
Suitors
of professed love but no passion.
I
move slowly through oppressive undergrowth
and
gnarled branches.
They
are remnants of unanswered tears,
unspent
passion,
and
unrequited love.
They
are the vengeful arms of deposed kings-
They
cast a shroud over the sun.
They
take years from the young.
They
put miles between lovers.
So
my sword I put to them
with
all the passion
left
unspent
in
all the time
my
love has been denied me.
And
I push on.
Wind
whistling ahead carries her voice.
Rain,
penetrating the thick canopy above me
tastes
like her sweet tears.
When
finally the canopy breaks
and
the gnarled sentries of dead limbs part-
The
mist that wets my face o'er brave tears
dries...
What
light is it that breaks through this thorned
forest?
What
heart has occupied the vacuum left in my chest?
It
is my love, as promised.
Prone
and
innocent
and
virginal.
Awaiting
me.
I
kneel, reverently.
My
sword at my side.
Soft,
feathery music
that
tickles at the back of my neck.
Her
hand, once so alive
and
wanting
now
lies limp at her delicate side.
With
memories mixing with hopes and endless, aching
need,
I
pull her hand so gently-
a
soft and careful kiss.
And
hope-
where
once it was not needed-
hope
to see lifeless, closed eyes flutter...
Across
the Years
Many
years ago-
perhaps
too many to count,
a
single, mournful violin string called out in the
darkness.
Years
later,
it
was joined by a symphony of violins
Millions
of violins.
And
the repetitive call
of
a single piano key.
A
decade passed
before
an ancient, magnificent grand piano came in
to
add life and power
to
the single key.
No
less than a hundred years
crept
by
before
a continent-spanning
wind
section
breathed
life into the body of music.
It
leapt off of the ancient parchment
and
danced majestically
into
forever
And
as it passed through each era of human experience,
it
left in its wake
the
lonely sound
of
a single pair of hands
clapping
in the darkness.
"The Spark of the
Gods"
I can make love with hands
that no longer feel
and eyes that no longer see.
I can recall the curve
and shape of you-
my fingers remember, and travel where they
must.
I can paint
when eyes no
longer discern colour.
I can love when my heart is cold.
My tongue retains
the memory of what it is you wants to hear.
But if my ears can no longer
hear,
can I still compose my heart's desire?
Will the spark of the Gods
push through old fingers?
Will scratches on a piece of
paper equal the majesty
that marches through my
mind?
After image
Glorious
memory
Ode to joy
"Joy, beautiful spark of
the gods,
Daughter of Elysium!"
My soul
My
heart
has memory
when notes course through my blood
but no longer kiss
my ears.
They are burned into my memory.
When I can feel the
passions flying open from my heart
but can no longer hear their song
I can
order and compose
and try to recall their individual notes
as if they were
errant children
or wayward locks of hair in the
wind...
"Freude, schöner
Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium!"
But will demeanour marry
scope?
The answer lies in unborn ears
and unborn hands across the
years...
"Michelle"
Part 1 "Frozen"
When
is it supposed to stop hurting?
Will
I be numb from the cold before I pass out from the
pain?
Doesn't
seem too bad.
Cold!
Like
needles through my flesh-
sweat
from the pain
freezing
into a thin sheet of ice on my forehead.
Can't
think.
Forgetting
little things
What
time is it?
Where
do I live?
Wasn't
there a woman I loved?
A
wife-
or
a girlfriend that I-
I
love someone!
A
lady whose name is...
I
can't remember.
Dear
lord, let me remember, please.
I
can't forget her!
let
me live,
long
enough to remember-
to
remember...
The
pain is gone.
The
needles are gone.
Can't
feel my fingers.
A
warm summer breeze just blew past,
stopping
long enough
to
kiss my forehead.
Love.
Sleep.
"Michelle"
Part 2 "Photograph"
When
I wake up, I sometimes see a photograph.
Not
of the woman I had loved, whose name still aludes
me.
Nor
do I see the lovely face of the woman
who
has forthe past few years
so
occupied my mind and my heart.
I
still see them from time to time,
but
on certain winter nights,
when
everything is very crisp and clear,
I
see the face of the woman
who
helped me back from a frozen hell
with
her warmth and compassion.
After
being betrayed by the woman I was so sure I had loved,
I
wanted to die.
I
nearly willed myself to do just that.
My
passion ran cold. My heart froze between beats.
Frozen
tears ran down my cheek.
I
wanted to stop feeling,
and
I nearly did.
All
I needed was a friend,
and
that's all she was.
A
friend whose caring
was
a warm summer breeze
that
revived me and lay me down
to
sleep until I was strong again.
Now,
thousands of miles away
and
years apart,
I
have a cherished photograph of her-
in
my mind...
"Michelle"
Part 3 "Fantastic"
The
idea is a cherished, hidden
half
dream.
An
unreachable star
that
I can reach for with arms far too weary.
Its
my hope and my quest-
yet
even my eternally hoping heart
acknowledges
that I can never, must never embark upon it.
Because
the photograph would turn to dust in seconds.
She
is a woman
with
her own hopes and concerns
and
I will not idolize her.
But
she is also a love that I can never touch.
A
relationship,
pure
and chaste,
and
separated by two thousand miles.
An
impossible dream.
A
longing that I'm ashamed to admit to.
But
finally, and most importantly,
she
is a friend
and
a fantastic human being.
Anticipation
listen
for the scratch across the page
in
anticipation of a letter.
answer
the phone
in
anticipation of her voice
send/receive
in anticipation of reply
open
the door in anticipation of first sight
close
my eyes
in
anticipation of first kiss...
