Monday, October 12, 2015

... and the sky bleeds like in a song

My vision hits the rays of the sun.
I quickly close my eyes,
... the light is far too bright.
And amongst well defined colours, and nothing in shadow,
I somehow struggle to see.
I notice its shine, you sometimes shine too,
... and my heart plummets, it forgets to beat.
I think of you, and what was once so sweet.

My eye catches a motor vehicle of all things, an elderly Mercedes Benz.
A girl's name, for an automotive beast.
I notice its shine, you sometimes shine too, my love.
And as it revs its cylinders into a dance,
I imagine you spinning in the midnight blackness,
... under the flashing and spotting of the many coloured lights.

My vision hits the rays of the sun,
It is setting, and the sky bleeds like in a song.
I look away, it is brilliant, I fear I will be blind.
You shine sometimes, your cheeks are as red as blood.
And I look away, for you burst with explosive darkly light.
And I cannot bear to be blind, I need to have my life-giving sight,
And with you it is always the darkest night.

Sometimes, I sense it still,
Somewhere in my bones,
It is not yet disappeared.
Some iota still feels love,
And like Rome's ancient Dido,
It desires to believe.

For what is rational,
The heart is yet to have seen,
And what is foolish,
It thinks is bound to succeed.
And I look at that Mercedes Benz,
And I wonder why he named it after a girl,
Not himself.

And at the stars in the night sky,
Named after muses, and the raging of the night.
And while some iota still hopes in you,
I know it is not quite yet rational,
And you are the darkly lunar light.
A shadow of dreams, a wisp of what could once have been.
And while I saw you, with unseeing glee,
I ignored what could have been.
I forgot what my eyes could have seen.
And somewhere in my bones,
It is not yet disappeared.

And I think of you, dear love,
And I wonder when it finally will leave,
When my love will disentangle from me,
And yet, still disappear,
... into the blinding sight of brightest day's inevitable night.
It only awaits the death throes of the final blight's fright.

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