11.12.2015

eleventh night

his face
pale like the moon
on a cold silent night
or the red planet Mars
bled of all that is bright
a great sea of fog
washes over his brain
a thunderous storm
or some poisonous stain
like moon tides it rises 
from miles away
I pen in my journal 
that it’s on its way

he fixes his eyes
on some strange apparition
his auras must be 
like a sick premonition
my boy arcs like a dancer
frozen in space
I call out his name
cup my hands to his face
we beckon him back
from this night’s black abyss
put our lips to his neck
and give him a kiss

he is lost to this world
in some transient state
for this war on my boy
I feel nothing but hate
he stares like a doll
his eyes made of glass
for a moment we doubt
if the seizure will pass
as hot lightening bolts
run amok in his head
 I imagine my boy
looking so when he’s dead

as the minutes tick by
he remains in a daze
I sink like a rock
in a blackish malaise
again I call out
to my raggedy doll
and he tries to get up
from his nightmarish fall
his skin starts to flush
like a gossamer lace
now a thumb to his mouth
the moon in
his face
 
Originally published 11.12.12

2 comments:

  1. It's so horrifically hard, yet you still create beauty.

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  2. This cry in poetry still tears at my heart. The repetition only makes the pain more intense. You have succeeded in letting us in, and I can only offer my hand, my good wish without words. Believe me, you and Michael are not alone.

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