A conversation, real or imagined....
"What do you see in the same old moon,
full of the stale stench of sweat and gloom,
surrounded by the unhealthy halo
of bitterness it's unable to outgrow?
Look at it,"you laugh, "swimming naked
in the dark, vain and unperturbed
by your silly emotions, your thoughts...
indifferent, even calloused,
like a rotting roti hung to dry
it's pock marked face scorning the sky!
Proud, uncaring and heartless
yet, still you gaze upon it. Madness!"
I listened, stunned, incapable of words
and thought about the chords
of moon-it nights that soothed my soul,
caressed my hands and made me whole.
"How can you forget those nights we walked
bathed in moonlight of white and chalk,
painting the canvas in bright delight
full of conversation, full of light?
I planned universes and watched them fall
laughed without rancor and answered the call
of our dreams egging us to be wild and free
twisting their bitter-sweet tendrils into me....
How can I forget? No," I shake my head
"I have not changed. I cannot," I firmly said.
"Live in the past then, you sentimental fool
those days are done, that life is gone for good.
Let's bury the dead... or burn them, if you will!"
your mocking laugh scattered like ashes in the wind.
"I shrugged, I guess you're right." I turned away
sought refuge in the half light of a new-born day.
Dragged out the memories steeped in dust
made a pile of all my apathy and angst
the hatred, the anger, the grief, the ache,
the futile emptiness of promises I made.
I wrung out grudge and lust and threw it all in.
I lit the pyre and watched it burn.
The smoke hurt my eyes, tears fell thick and fast
and when it was over I laid the dead to rest.
And now, sometimes, when the moon is full, I watch
for that beacon of light, that tiny swatch
of moonbeam on the cold stone floor
and see your face: peering through the door.