An Early Morning Conversation

“It takes two to tango”, she said,
as her words floated on specks of
dust lit up by the early morning sun

We’d read through the night, and
then some more, bathing in words and
dressed in paragraphs of prose and euphony

“It takes two to tango”, she whispered,
again, bringing me back to earth and mud.
my ears rung as we hung our harps.

we’ll have our own promenade, I promised her.
on grassy knolls, we’ll have our vaunted,
lonely march.

and then, finally, we’ll be surrounded by virulent seas;
waters that’ll leave us be, while we sing
our dulcet hallelujahs one last time.

Sojourner

I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt
for a life surrounded by timbers, and the swaying green leaves
Of a forest in the north, with clouds made of bale and rain that
Pitter patters all over the place, tip-toeing when I’m asleep and
Lashing the ground when I’m awake. And lakes and rivers and
Puddles of water and mud and blood; the blood of honest men,
So I can throw a pebble and watch it bounce off the water,
Carefree, forever-
The dream of every ten year old on a boring family holiday.

I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt I’ve dreamt
Of hot-headed angels, with their callousness and general
Disdain for humanity. Oh they look at us so! With their clean
Airbrushed wings and spotless white they point at us and
Laugh at us. We! Creations of mud and clay! But being created out of
Light is overrated; it’s ghastly. I can wank, and curse, and spew
Bile – but can they? I’ve dreamt of them and I’ve waited for them –
Waited for them to come for me.

I’ve dreamed I’ve dreamed I’ve dreamed I’ve dreamed
Of death under a sky full of lights, and of life under stones,
With water seeping into my clothes, while an angry magister
Bellows god’s will in my ears.

-this is life.
And when it’ll come is beyond me.

Cadence

It’s not easy, with the grass floundering
under your decaying feet. the skin that falls
off doesn’t glisten under the sun; it melts,
instead, to the ground. you’ll talk of your
victory, but pyrrhus would not listen -
he knows about it anyway. there will be songs
for you, and for us, and for them. little
violin concertos, bustling through the clouds
and landing next to us. but we are supposed
to be doing something; doing stuff, though I
know not what that means. I am not Mathieu,
and you are not Marcelle. oak and sycamore
is built for us, you whisper. for us to use,
like we have used the sun and the moon.
because soon, it will be nightfall, and the
bluebirds will fly off, and the rooks with
their black coats will venture towards
warmer lands, leaving us with nothing but
the dry, half-empty words that drip off
our tongues.