End of argument...

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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.

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