The sun cannot repair the damage of the night,
the silences between your smile and mine;
the focus of our desperate thoughts and dreams,
the shattered wisdom of our ancient sapience;
for now we dance upon a field of tears
in the twilight of this world of dust;
two deadly members of that hated race,
remembering the frozen and forgotten days of rage.
We’ve danced and danced these fatal strategies,
under the southern clime of this intrepid fallacy;
no longer can we turn away, nor isolate this slice of banishment;
instead we wander here among the lonely tribes, mere semblances
dispatched to air and wind, circling the blackened circuits of the falling stars;
where in the underbelly of their fractured lights
we squander truth and live on our inhuman flights –
the interludes of pain and joy, the captured intervals of lost love’s wars;
where once we lived among the lauded tears of paradise,
before the fears of time fell from our deathly songs, slaying happiness.
The clown and harlequin have hidden us in the circle of fear and doubt,
casting silences around the world like minions of a cosmic route;
their laughter and the dancing tumult of their riotous throng
have all gone home to Night’s Kingdom, leaving only this broken doll
swinging on the puppet stick, laughing; his lips synching ours infinitely.
At Midnight the wandering moon grows cold, the stars begin to fall…
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2016 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.