Sunday, 28 June 2009

• Political Prisoner

  I.

  I regret.

  I fear.

  I move forward.
  

  I put myself beside you.

  
  

  I align myself with your broken house

  in hopes I could restore you.

   

  I will burn the documents like you asked.

   

  II.
  

  I close the windows

  and carefully sweep the floors.

   

  I struggle to keep

  a crooked smile on my face.

  I believe in what we strove for.

  In what we fought about.
  

   

  Your lingering smell

  follows me from room to room,

  moving through me with each draft.

   

  Our pictures hang on the wall,

  with smiles triumphant.

   My fingers brush the pane
  

  of transparent distance.

  
  

  And it takes the breath out of me.

   

  The adoration for you in that captured moment

  feels like salt in a wound.

  I can't escape what I felt... then.

  You've left a hole in my heart,

  and my chest is empty.

   

  You, my most precious friend,
  

  in leaving took the fight out of my hands and feet.

  
  I wake up in the bed

  too large for my small soul

  and I ask aloud -

  "Is this over yet?"

  
  

   III.

  
  

  I'm dangerous to those who try to take your place,

  and I'm scared of what I'm capable of.

  Your grave doesn't speak.

   

  But iron and stone keep me from you.

   

  Carved numbers burn with shame.

  Your tombstone mocks me.
  

  I will keep you alive,

  as I burn these pages.

  
  

  A forgotten manifesto

  almost finished.

   

  One by one, I'll burn the pages, just like you asked.

  I'm absent in this manifesto. Not present

  in your pinnacle work.

  I'm glad.

  
  

  As I watch the ash be reconsumed

  by the angry orange candle light

  I wonder if I would feel the burn. 

  
  

  But if I were destroyed,
  

  I would destroy what I have left of you and enough of me has been destroyed. 

  
  

  I.
  

  Reach forward and take this spark

  this piece of life from deep inside of me.

  Maybe it would save you.

   

  II.

  I was looking for a place where I could

  shake loose my hair

  and remove the ashes of the road

  from my feet.

   

  III.

  Fearing the most precious of me rejected,

  I sharpened my knowledge ... of how you tick.

  Slaying you with a word

  and mopping the floor

  with your cut hair.

   

  Not that I would.

  Simply that I am capable of it.

  
  

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