In Flickering Passion

She is there, standing alone in the park, by the little brook,
smoking a cigarette beneath the sickly streetlamp, looking away.
She is there, in all the glory that I adored, all the sereinity of hell,
all the quiet of the grave, all the sleep of cherished minds misplaced.
She is there, and I am here.
 She is there, twenty years past, when I ran among sorceresses, demons,
and felt a cold flame in my belly, knew the rage that won an angel’s love,
and the certainty that youth knows in coming death, in flickering passion
and the little deaths that build castles out of broken shards of our eyes.
She is there, and I am here.
 I am here, lost, without words to tell, or a dream to write on her lips,
or kisses to touch upon her eyes, and make blooms of nights of shed blood,
or a softness in a devilish heart, that held all of the darkness like a child,
and gave took from her fleshy orchids that turned lust into life.
I am here, and she is there.
 Madness is now just stupid hunger and a dull ache, a missing hangman,
a calming of a salacious heart, that brings ashes for dreams, a deathlike
reckoning in a life without purpose or rage or anysort of kindness in night.
A ghost, neither who I was then, or the child I was before, just a ticking clock.
I am here, and she is there.

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