We peer as if behind delicate lace-work to soften
Need – weighted with a terrible tinge, puce maybe?
Whispering aches only heard by wall art
Behind cool darkened doors of solitude.
It appears in couched terms
Divulged in metaphor, spun in rhyme
Shrouded in lyrical prose; mirages no one sees but
All see, in this overcrowded desert of bodies.
Emperors all are we
Scribbling in our invisible clothes, startled
If spotted behind our woven illusion, when
A fellow wanderer drinks at our mirage to slake thirst
Relief echoes in vibrato, rapidly rushing
Shell of pretense cracked and shucked, into
The refuse bucket, delicate innards shimmer, anticipatory
And rush we, into shared weaknesses and frailty
-Need nestled against need.
Grace there used to be in the mourning
Banded arms, veil-shrouded tears
Private yet publicly seen scenes
Black cars with black windows
To hold the bleakness inside
So that it doesn’t leak out and get on passers-by
Why did it have to come the year she understood
there is no afterlife This is life, get after it
One per customer, one size fits most
Unless you have the imagination for two
Which proves good, since she is one now.
Why did he write for forever preserved in words, her manna
His inked fingerprints staining the paper “I hope this is your best year yet”
In the year that all colors turned to ash, heart turned into
Endless forms, mailings, courtrooms
The vagaries of dead life
Why did people say ‘he’s watching over you’ like
That is comforting – oh, to comfort them, that’s right
Because love can barely bear to watch the loved
Suffer, fall apart, spin out of control, lay staring at the ceiling
Mumbling like a mad person alone in the dark
If I were a melody in your mind, how would you write me?
In Adagio perhaps, as in the best way to approach.
Would you linger over Staccato, to match your heartbeat in my presence?
And although some may prefer Delicato,
It seems best paired with Appassionato, as two hearts enfold into one.
With tempo written, how would then you elicit my sound?
Gentle finger strokes upon ivory, scaling the highs and lows
Lovingly drawing a bow long and slow across heartstrings, echoing
Would you form the strong embouchure required of the reeds and brass
Or be the pounding, driving force holding together the pace found in the percussion line.