Something reminds me of a gilded hour,
the honeyed sunset of your eyes,
a host of black-eyed angels with the myth of night
on their lips.
Soft, deep, healing words, similes of
being swept up into something great and real.

Bourbon-laced whispers beneath a laden breath
where they (the angels) fear to tread.
Yet tread there still until
the dark falls like the ashes that
greet your foundation, and is swallowed
by the weightless demand of brilliance
in your eye.

I am here by a 3rd degree choice.
Written on the proverbial taste for the
Divine and retrospective vodkas of reality.

I hear my days pounding in the steps of an unreal man,
absorbing the redemption of a background thief — 
picking out a perpendicular tune through his teeth.
With a rippled melancholy, his voice is
somewhere behind the wind.
I can almost hear it — 
the history of strength and learned nobility.

The aroma of truth, the whiteness of mushrooms,
the way the day grows heavy then
light again at twilight.
Through the threads of vanilla orchids
the sky is filtered, shades of sun and clouds;
the back door is open leaving a trail of
malignant desire in the linger of
rain beyond the trees.

The tap, tap, tapping of the rain on roof-tiles,
when the smell of hope winds through the wet.
These are the kinds of things you can’t find in books
because there aren’t words simple
or joyful enough.

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