I had a vision, palms up,
wings brushing against my spirit
robe tickling my feet
as he passed
and then walked back
and stood before me,
forgiving, after endless weeping,
pleading, calling of my name
in psalms and song
on nights when I wandered
in darkness, head bowed
searching for a father
who never knew I was alive
when the real one
was standing right here
in front of me, arms open,
just waiting to be adored.
I have run out of anger
for all of the third Sundays in June,
the unblown candles in April,
and absent memories
I have a song in my belly,
a lump in my throat,
and violins stealing my air.
Just let me sigh
at every bride
with you on her arm,
each touching scene
at the cinema
when every eye in the house
all the what if’s
and could have beens
and help me remember
when I fall,
when I am not worthy,
when everyone else fails me.
to look up
toward the one constant,
the glimmer of hope
Night stars beaming through blue curtains
dancing to a half – illuminated moon
and I just sit here, in wonder,
wondering where we fit in
to the scheme of things,
counting every moment I have wasted,
away from you, every second, unaware.
In the morning, picking wildflowers.
barefoot, we, searching for sand dollars,
trading words for glances
and kisses for choruses of affection.
I will bring my harp,
you bring your flute of wood
and we’ll serenade the sky
until the cardinals come home.
This rain, a perfect disguise for weeping;
the two of us holding teacups with pinkies.
Youth, as quick as a soft candle, blowing
in air as sweet and sacred as fog.
You could not be any further
or closer to me; the weight of you
pressing in, bursting light,
pouring passion upon us
from every corpuscle.
You left, draped in red,
forgiveness in every pore,
and took my transgressions with you.
You left me with this sun,
bright and promising,
spelled out in constellations
that only you can see
and a winding, unpaved road
to get me there.
I have danced, stomped, crawled,
run, and walked backward,
with miles and miles to go
before I rest;
you, in my footsteps,
your voice in my head,
with one hundred twenty-one
reasons to stop,
but one perfect reason to stay.
I shall whisper it to you
with my last breath,
when I am laid, resting
in the comfort of your arms.
Honest. Satirical. Observations.
Writings by Mud are ... Copyright Mud 2017
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