Call of the Dark Light
Come night, we are Caravaggio’s angels
disrobed of their halos.
In the moonlight, bouncing off the window,
the reflection of our hands scares us.
The world swallows us like dollops
of rotten milk.
Tomorrow, we are but the silk
strings of the cocoon of a beautiful goo
Daylight ‘s burning ,
candles flicker over love letters,
the eyes surf the cursive wishing they were bows
and our bodies, our bodies
more like violins.
The fairytale does not scare the frog
that slumbers, floating on a nenuphar.
Our infinities but moments,
dust under the water.
Yesterday, we were the river
rocking it to sleep,
and now, and now but commas
after every number,
the shush of our creators
riddle us drunk with the sunlight,
drop us to the shadows on the Earth like we are pears.
Warm wine in the warm blood,
spun between two fingertips like pearls.
Let us live to have a porch to sit on
while watching the storm
dispose of its childish innuendos on the lawn.
we’ll be gone.
So leave the door a crack open
while you’re leaving.
*for Death by Broken Shoelaces over at Desperate Poems. Please check out the prompt and join in. The poem, for me, is a little look back to one of my own, old, favourite writing in a poem and is a slightly sour pocket of awareness of the, often cruel, passing of time – whether we are ready or not, happy or sad, about it. It was additionally inspired by the painting I’ve shared.
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