You
lit the fuse inside
and were the muse beside
quelling bruise and cry of tide
never refusing or denied.
Oh how you skewed my pride
and continued to deny -
no use for us to try
or choose as we
not I.
There are some who cannot sleep
but I am not one of those.
Maybe it is sunflares, or wireless waves -
or just careless late night revelries
that cause my eyes not want to see,
and crave the shut and hide
from light and ordinary days.
Oh how sweet a fix of sleep might be
for me here counting blinks of hours,
from daylight bounds to cushioned doze.
Maybe I’m just getting older?
Or staring at the screen too long?
Perhaps a candle burned all sides?
And as I cup my forehead in cold palm hands,
and drift awhile before whip-snapped back,
I’m too tired to feel guilt or fully realise
my luck - that I’m not one of those,
who cannot sleep.
He left
before the ink
had dried.
Just stood up,
pushed the chair
then walked away.
But not in temper or frustration -
more like quiet, pensive air
such as that found at the end of exams
or when signing mortal documents.
This was determined consideration,
as evidenced by the pen lined up -
gracefully placed with elegant hand
in symmetry with closed covers
and memories scrawled,
like old ledger marks recalled.
But there was deathly deliberation
when he capped the lid and bit his tongue
to stop the thoughts that leaked
on paper trails and trials,
that lead to you and me.
It was not good for him you see;
this opening of secret boxes,
this butterfly chase without a net.
This nakedness of soul before an ocean -
it hurt just a bit too much.
And so he sighed and left
before the ink
could dry.
Like
needles spun
from north to south
talking circled hope
and pushing on
like rivers run
from fount to mouth
discarded ropes
below the sun.
And all things done
when we were youth
on scattered slopes
now end before
they have
begun.
Hoist your sight above the lashes
weighing like cross-roped crates,
their cargo pressing down
upon your eyes.
Why - when there is much more
to see, to experience, and to learn
must you focus on the hatches
and not the sky?
Why?
It started,
with a cursor kiss
and keyboard strokes
before they clicked.
Then whispered nights
became the safety net
that fixed the breath
of teasing swoon
and furtive sighs.
But these,
weren’t young fools
or sweat-soaked youth.
No, these souls
had already learned
the dance before -
a thousand times in fact
it should be known.
And every step
was shared.
So they danced.
They really danced.
Not just in notion, nor theory -
but like fiery molecules,
rolling in energetic flux
like downhill streams
rushing to sea,
in synchronicity.
Treading dreams
of flowered sway and
waltzes in the shadows
behind St. Wenseslav’s horse
they whirled and flitted -
not wondering where hours
roam or care to go.
And that was that.
And they both knew -
the moment when
the dancefloor
moved.
Here, we are ghosts in the armature
rattling cage and tugging tight the lines.
Like puppets hung in trapeze swing,
with harness pull from wind and spool.
And we are neon birds on tangled toes
with careful steps over charged cathode.
We move from A to B, then on to Z
with plug and play perfundity.
But pull away the wires and
we’ll find the real you and me.
This one’s for the two of you
as you rise like stars above,
like prayered hands that clasp
the twin souled magnet night.
This one’s for the two of you,
in kissing wind and shared air,
like gulping silver fish that rush
to capture all, to be the ones.
This one’s for the two of you
who think these thoughts you share
and gaze in pools of eyes and soul,
then fall in love with wonders found.