The Waltz Of A Shadow

How there is so much pain

in the moon

I pick your memory from,

mould the cheekbones to your face

with a lost love,

dropping you off

inside me by a lemon pool of eyelids.

 

It’s this that comes back

to find me

as the bass line runs

 

The memory of your turn

boots me down a canyon,

the sound of your dreams

bring oceans to my eyes,

the weight of your shadow

defeats my leap into heaven

leaving me by windows

stitched tight with curtains

and doors made from solider statues.

 

I tasted your life once;

lifted summer from

the shoulders of the sun

placing every wild dancer around you,

dressing you up in silver mirrors

that woke the poppies from their headstones.

With broken eyes

I found a parched lagoon

to plant inside your tears,

then I swam for you

as a boat made from young years.

 

There are no songs playing tonight,

your mute purple perfume

hangs from an apple tree

that is brave enough to rot,

your heels pace up and down my mind

like hailstones made from Dante’s bed of death.

 

Yet, shall I tell you what really robs

my whistle

from the steam of those early morning showers,

my voice

from the melodies of the evening radio,

it’s seeing you waltz so gallantly

like blowing ribbon,

so pliant with oblivion.

Yes! How you spun with that abyss

as it serenaded your bare feet

into its mystic.

Deep into its open

further and further away

you fell

until the final step came,

throwing at me in reckless haste

a moon and a shadow

made from Roman nails.