EnamouredByFlight

To you,

A letter written and burnt.

And yet despite this still you have read it,

In my eyes as we passed near, dear stranger,

Already knowing every word of it,

Every you of it being You

And always being.

Thebes and bitter bitumen,

Astoria, can they be planted?

Words rock the young child’s eggshell mind,

Mixed up with shapes, Jim and Ursa Major.

Phoenicia, is that my name?

Antibiotic delirium strikes as a mother,

Calls one daughter glamorous,

It stings when she has just called the other beautiful.

Syracuse trickles through the rivets of her brain

Sinking sticky into the temporal space.

I’ve run out of page, so that’s all for tonight.

Can you see the tail of the horse,

Burnished pink in the right hand of the setting sun?

Trace it with your fingers.

Are you looking,

For longer than a second?

Do you see it?

Will it stay with you?

Does it need to?

The light is in my eyes and they blaze

Almost like they used to.

What slow and righteous puncture

Sucks the oxygen from the flame

Of youthful imagination and

How do I relight it?

The setting sun will not do it for me.

The horse’s tail cannot sweep back time.

Then the task is my own

And more battle than task.

The horses tail is a white flag

And it’s more surrender than battle.

In the days waning rays,

I’m more drowning than anything else.

Tomorrow’s sun could boil the water

And I could stand amidst the misted billows,

Let the light catch them as they shoot

Fractals into my limbs let them glow.

This vision will not come to pass.

This evening shall.

And in a state as cool and fictive as any other,

My thoughts will run me to restless dreams and

I will not get enough sleep.

I will look again

Out the garden window tomorrow

And curse again

My tired spirit and spit

Again upon her

For not capturing such visions

Again for not

Writing enough poetry

Again for not

Painting the tail of the horse

Again

For not living enough.

In rapturous shell shock,

I run a bath.

I cannot remember many words in my language any more,

But I know the word for love.

Someone must have thought it very important

To teach me at a very young age

And I am inclined to agree.

For what else am I to use this forgetful tongue,

If not to call you by your name

As my childish heart knows it,

Cariad.

New to Tumblr (old to life) but just wanted somewhere to leave all the bits and pieces of poetry I have.

Hoping someone can find something in there that helps them, they’ve been good to me.