Voices

Only a paper moon to some,
I gaze at the black velvet sky
diamondized by a skirt of stars.
I linger on the inexorable joy of a deep sanctuary.
Voices echo through the splendid night
and fade into the ocean's rush. Had we
been there too often? Was it all just a dream?

Once, we glided
on the edge of time.
It was a placid place to be
where voices were at rest and silences
ruled our loving, perfect world.
No other man could rule my make-believe
canvas of ink
when I drew you in the sand,
with your fair hair and golden tan.
But the sound of angels in flight have come and gone,
and you hold my heart too close to speak above
a whisper, by now.

The dripping wax of the candle
that burns our memories down
hurries us to another decade of new voices.
I dream of a turquoise head-dress of fragile feathers,
the colour for the month I was born,
raise my hands up to heaven
furied at my fear of losing my way,
and think of how your affections are always
nestled in special thoughts.

Now, I am older.
Yet, you are the same.
Many miles far away keep my moons with just nostalgic seas.
The voices of quiet nights in quiet cafes along a secluded beach
hold fewer possibilities to stand solely on a coy fantasy.

We are only liquid light, thousands of fractured voices
interrupting the consequences of holding hands for
so, so long.
We are victims of our own solid love.



Stormy Lady's Poetry Newsletter And Contest, Second Place, February, 2009