In these lonely days and frigid nights I
Die courageously or so I think or surmise
That my bravery is bravado and in these
Moments before my soul eludes the withered
Grasp from my human temple I hear only
The sound of her, running her fingers over
My face and tilting that lean neck to the side
As the brilliance from the rose scented candles
Dances across her eyes as though I plucked
Two stars from another galaxy and created the
World’s only celestial contacts and in my dying
Moment she whispers love everlasting and as the
Flames char my body into fine powdered dust that
Mixes with the wind and scatters as a foreign spice
Into the bowels of the Mother of the ocean, my fears
Rise before my eyes through the flames and I wince;
Not for the heat or the terrible stench of my burning
Soul or the life that was and is now never more but
For the resurrection of my soul as the remnants of my essence
Are swept together once more and I rise as a renewed
Creature destined to again witness her voice that
Brings torture to my ears, and her smile that waxes
The blood in my veins cold and the swinging of her
Hips that grinds my masculinity to tattered pieces
And in this cycle of death and life, of dust and flesh
I beg of the Creator to remove this blessing of
The Phoenix.
The candles slowly die in unison to the weakening of my eyes as I reread the letters sprinkled across the wrinkled paper. Angie Stone is painting my background, speaking of lost sunshine and clouds that will not rain again. I rub my eyes profusely as though the ink from the page will magical rearrange itself into a testament of love and faithfulness that will renew the flame in my heart as easily as I renew the heat of the candles with the flick of a match. But as the shades grow longer in the room and the moon begins to orchestrate the movements of the tide I see no change. The same demon that taught her hands to compose this symphony of death stands over my shoulder and grins with crooked teeth; his laughs send shivers down my back and his utter coldness grips my throat and the air steeped with the scent of rose fragrance from the candles only comes to me in the smallest of increments. My mind is tired and exposed. She gave no warning. She simply wrote every bad word that drained from her breast and destroyed our sacred circle. How many questions did she know would go unanswered? How could I fathom that some intimate restaurant would be the burial place of our relationship? As the candles slowly die in unison to the weakening of my eyes I embrace the death of my soul in fire that will now swiftly come….
Die courageously or so I think or surmise
That my bravery is bravado and in these
Moments before my soul eludes the withered
Grasp from my human temple I hear only
The sound of her, running her fingers over
My face and tilting that lean neck to the side
As the brilliance from the rose scented candles
Dances across her eyes as though I plucked
Two stars from another galaxy and created the
World’s only celestial contacts and in my dying
Moment she whispers love everlasting and as the
Flames char my body into fine powdered dust that
Mixes with the wind and scatters as a foreign spice
Into the bowels of the Mother of the ocean, my fears
Rise before my eyes through the flames and I wince;
Not for the heat or the terrible stench of my burning
Soul or the life that was and is now never more but
For the resurrection of my soul as the remnants of my essence
Are swept together once more and I rise as a renewed
Creature destined to again witness her voice that
Brings torture to my ears, and her smile that waxes
The blood in my veins cold and the swinging of her
Hips that grinds my masculinity to tattered pieces
And in this cycle of death and life, of dust and flesh
I beg of the Creator to remove this blessing of
The Phoenix.
The candles slowly die in unison to the weakening of my eyes as I reread the letters sprinkled across the wrinkled paper. Angie Stone is painting my background, speaking of lost sunshine and clouds that will not rain again. I rub my eyes profusely as though the ink from the page will magical rearrange itself into a testament of love and faithfulness that will renew the flame in my heart as easily as I renew the heat of the candles with the flick of a match. But as the shades grow longer in the room and the moon begins to orchestrate the movements of the tide I see no change. The same demon that taught her hands to compose this symphony of death stands over my shoulder and grins with crooked teeth; his laughs send shivers down my back and his utter coldness grips my throat and the air steeped with the scent of rose fragrance from the candles only comes to me in the smallest of increments. My mind is tired and exposed. She gave no warning. She simply wrote every bad word that drained from her breast and destroyed our sacred circle. How many questions did she know would go unanswered? How could I fathom that some intimate restaurant would be the burial place of our relationship? As the candles slowly die in unison to the weakening of my eyes I embrace the death of my soul in fire that will now swiftly come….
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