the night calls
“for him the night calls
out of the dawn and sunset
who has made poems.” E E Cummings
do not imprison me in a love poem.
I need to wander, in pursuit of art;
to follow the ever hidden, unwritten
passions of my wayward heart.
speak my name, the words that define me.
how many shades of blue can stain a man’s
life? the Alice blue of tears. a tincture of vanity,
royal as any beggar. glaze of solitude (alone by
design), dark as a midnight sky. indigo ink that
bruises the page with these vainglorious words.
like the last minutes of a sunset, I fade ever
more through these days that rain down fire.
and I am already a ghost.
count the nights, and remember that under
the sheets we only shared the selfish yearnings
of the flesh.
do not imprison me, nor call me lover –
what have I ever been for you?
nothing more than a shadow on your heart…