Missing

There is a way that lives enchained

around solitude,

the look of neglected milk

finding each incurable morning with listless

taps that always seem to drip with heels on.

 

The day wears the face of old wood

stranded shipwrecked upon an island

with a single tree ablaze,

a jealous vampire sweeps the floors

with a wading army of

reincarnated slaves, hunting the moon

of my thoughts.

 

The stillness of weeks and shoes that

wait obsequiously by some lonely kettle smoke,

the talk of a city outside, the rise of a world

with no face

waking with hurried skin to pursue rust

and things that will never speak.

 

I laze with seasons

for there is nutrition in the patience of

days, where the telephone forfeits its tongue

for the rise of a young bird song, the rain knocks

on a dead window with orphan knuckles

whilst I exist alongside all penumbral colours, mouths with minds

of sermons and guitar lips that only speak to break strings

 

There are angels all around,

in disaster days and blithe water beds,

glory forms out of flutes brushed with air

gently sinking the madness of eyes

 

Yet, no matter how much this peace boasts,

parading with auspicious strides and feathers plucked from heaven,

I still feel an aberrant sword

pressed coldly against my heart.