Sorrowfully, I Saw You

4693806467_8dd89deb2a_b

 

I saw you on the train the other day,

Crying out under the burden

Of someone else’s sorrows,

Or at least I imagined that it was you,

And that you were crying,

And that the sorrows were not your own.

 

I saw you down the hall as well,

Standing in perfect stillness,

Knees bent under the weight

Of our caprice,

Head bowed as if in prayer,

Or at least I pretended it was you,

And maybe even said a prayer of my own

To the Old Gods we used to howl to,

When the moon was full of joy,

And so were we.

Advertisements

June

It was June, the month of broken promises and hopeless dreams.
I was further gone than I’d been before, perhaps a bit recklessly,
But we were young and restless and the night was aging fast.

So we went to war, all guns and roses and bloodless violence;
The guns weren’t loaded, and the roses had wilted last month,
But we needed to see who’d be victorious, so we fought.

The battle raged on and on past the midnight hour, and I?
I prayed for my salvation, and that I’d die younger than the others
Because we couldn’t stop until there was but one man left standing.

It was June, the land of broken dreams and hopeless promises.
I was young, perhaps younger than I’d been before the war,
But the night was dying, and in the light of dawn I saw.

Morning was breaking, and I was too, but I’d be going home first
Because at my feet were the bloodied bodies of my allies,
Scattered amongst the wilted roses and the now hollow guns

I closed the eyes of the one I’d loved above all the others,
But he was cold as stone and the roses were quickly overtaking him,
Because as hard as I’d prayed that night, death had kept me waiting.

It was June, the realm of love lost and something called grief.
I lay me down to rest amongst the young roses, and, bitter, bitter, bitter,
I celebrated the century with a single deadly bullet called deliverance.

The Art of Loneliness

It was Sunday, the day of madness, and I alone knew that.
Awakened in the midnight hours by another magnificent work
By the artist himself;

I’d spent the evening studying another of his masterpieces,
And I suppose that the indelible ochre ink he preferred
Stained my dreams;

I carried his ink and quill with me as I lay me down to sleep,
And, with great care, placed them on the night table
Nearest the door;

I laid down on his canvas, and covered myself in his melodies,
As the clock rang to announce the coming of midnight
And the silence grew louder still;

It had been Saturday, a day of merriment, a day of rejoicing,
But Saturday was no more, and the artist was indeed inspired
By its absence;

And in the darkness, he handed me a light – a painting,
A self portrait carved into a shard of the mirror I’d broken earlier,
Entitled – The Art of Loneliness.