If I wander through these shadows now like a court jester,
dissembling among these false angelic hierarchies, lost among the crevices
of this world, it is only to find you here again under a late autumn sky.
Your breath comes from another world of love, where time slips
silently forward, falling into me; your quavering life awakening
even as these cold stones break against the black stain of night.
How long ago our histories forfeited their measure of truth,
those long mute days that kept us on the edge of things;
our lips moving to a searing lamentation – a flight of sparrows.
Even now in the silence, echoes of that night follow me,
the languid dripping of decay on wet marble; an event among pale leaves,
when death came with open arms, a lover’s complaint on her lips.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.