To the Dream
You are not dead.
Not after the gravity of
the fall, collapse of a curtain
call, not after the ecstasy of youth
lost, rejuvenated in a great cost,
no after in the silence, I hear no
words spoken, but I can see.
What semblance of a difference
between you and I can you imagine,
sole heart makes way in soul's brain,
giveaway to give pain away,
to blend it into a body,
into an art,
conjunction of two stars, celestial at last,
to take love from your love and take it apart,
to see it as two parts, to part it, to feel,
to fast your path through a return, no,
to must as a sensation of life, jubilation
in reborn ash, new-born moon
blue as the dust, the dust, remains
of a song, are you listening?
of a song, are you listening?
of a song, are you listening?
The strange behaviour of your doom, of star
rays shooting in my eyes,
they blind them, ridiculous disguise
of indifference to all the noise and all the lies
of after, of mirage
in mirrors and the whys
of the poor souls who prefer to dine
on black and white letters, papers
burning up in a fireplace somewhere,
I might have had the lighter
as to light my proof of you,
as proof of life in impossible surprise,
serendipity for the few,
as proof of raw contempt in a fashionable sense,
a show, applause rows
are given in blissed awes,
As proof aloneness of I
who never thought would learn to die.