A poem for you.

I saw them serve the world to it on a platter dripping gold,
weaving intricate dances between tables and chairs,
plie's and lifts over lesser-known faces to the all-consuming appetite,
with glistening lips and sparkling teeth like polished saw-blades bolted to bone,
reclining in its seat with belly aching for more and a cloud of smoke billowing endlessly from puffing cheeks,
watched closely by writers and singers and souls,
all intimate with the subject at hand,
who sipped wine in half-lit halls and spoke in whispered hush,
who laughed too loud and clapped hands to mouth to drown the internal clown,
who chewed and swallowed insignificant meals with total true content,
while staring a few minutes at a time  at the shifting mass engulfed in dancing servants tables away.
Who brought their friends to enjoy a night but fed them only fear,
who tiptoed to restrooms to re-apply make-up and repair cracking portraits,
who smiled too often and began to look restless whilst leaving as fast as they came,
now fleeing the beast which was relentless in consuming all it could discern.

And their beds flagged with doctors and nurses and friends,
all desperate for the angry glimpse,
a brief exposure to the world from before where all was well and well were all.

Now fighting with prescriptions and hypodermic gladius,
the innocent warrior robed in blood and in tears,
whose hair turned so golden then amber unseen,
in a city far far away.

Who shivered in embraces and shredded magazines,
who kissed me goodnight with a smile,
who held my hand tightly and tore at my flesh leaving a souvenir of silver teeth-marks through time immemorial,
who laughed and who giggled and was happy indeed,
now so lost in a world not her own.
Whose name I cannot write for fear I am losing the battle with the subconscious self,
so adamant of love and of passion.

The hand freezes for an instant unsure of where to go,
to profess and amore or to be cool and say 'like',
to seize her and hold her and feel her warmth,
or to touch her but be loose and unfeeling,
the hand is now shaking and smudging the ink in to blurred confessions of a tormented soul,
now deafened by bells and by trains and by horns,
and blinded by the dichotomy of duality.

And the writer is crying for the first time in years as his words dissolve and turn crude,
now nothing more than the shade of the ever-fucked father now a million miles lost in time.
And pausing for breath between scribble and scratch,
and cursing too loudly at the walls and the doors,
bursting feathers and claws and becoming the beast that will burn all the world when it feels too cold.
Still smoking and drinking and dreaming of balls,
no longer he smiles but is warped by poetic addiction.

Too nice with no vice makes Rhys a dull boy.
Too nice with no vice makes Rhys a dull boy.
Too nice with no vice makes Rhys a dull boy.

And the heart and the mind are applauding the soul,
now decided on current conundrum,
and with roaring crescendo he smiles and he writes,
that eternally over-due line.

I love you.