Monday, 22 November 2010
William Michaelian
Before me, the past
Before me, the past speeds ahead.
It arrives, I know not when.
Behind me, the future is silent.
It knows that I am dead.
Pity, there is no grief in starlight.
Mercy, cries for the unborn.
Duty, is a failed science.
Love, walks alone.
You show me a sign.
A bright, fathomless smile.
As if there were, anything.
As if we were, real.
As if, rainbows give birth to children.
And they do: rainbows, and strawberries.
Fallen angels, white as any snowflake.
Black as an eye in a song.
Blue, as when light returns.
Green, because everything is so damn silly.
Honeyed as any flower.
Or as the scent and color of skin.
Intimate, as graveyard stone.
Whispers, with cold gray fingertips.
Wet shoes: where have I been?
And how did you find me?
A siren in a cityscape.
Moonlight, on a table.
Perhaps, or, simply, fate.
A wet sponge by the sink.
A leaf, a candle.
An unexpected need.
Etiketter:
william michaelian
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8 comments:
Excellent, William.
Thanks, Jenny, and thanks for the beautiful presentation.
This is so good; impeccable aesthetics.
Thank you, Ande!
Really nice William.
Pamela
Thank you, Pamela, and it’s nice to make your acquaintance.
Lovely poem, William, and good to see you here.
Thanks, Peter. And it’s good to see you, poetry, readings, hair, and all.
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