Pittance from the sleeve

Bottles and midnight tilt in candled opera light across my cold and colorless room..all sins here unfold and have forgotten, as with the days too far for such a mind and heart at ease. 

Oh, please forgive,  for there was a time I will confess that mattered, the way that spring jabs at winter as if a peach slow to rot from its ovary, but do consider me slow. There WAS a time rich with topaz when the sea became the coils of notion, a time that sprawled and blinded me to the center of my fingertips, rushing to be somewhere in this vicinity of sighs, but how broken you must have  died somewhere, a glance inside the mirror, how deep the well or so the years may say again. 

Again forgive, for no twilight lives in morning when angels fill the gin in your crag and coffee; a dawn-bled ruby red life has sailed. Yet times when you'd speak I could only hear the memory of water. A Logos that for some means God, others the spirit at your petal-ized feet. Now, there is only a trace and the wanting silence, prayers from the sleeve for a New Year when the streets rused may find some day apostle(d).  I will only have an absent sense of stage. 

Our absence, my love was the only waste and sin to all these years, the only night I may regret . But should you hear that all has perished do not upset for the end, for you have already died in a fog professed, which lingers beside us like a musty old rag.  

Author's Note

Reviews

[Jenny Lee]

Only the sound of your words in my mind prevent me throwing myself in a fire of decimation.
I so long to taste this gift of yours someday for myself is the only hope that keeps me sane.
To write with this elegance and this eloquence is coveted above all my desires even for demise.
You heal my soul. Perdition.

[Perdition]

Take the stance of beauty, walk softly into the waters, into the spirit dancing within you, into this so called chapter of "demise" Be beside your words, your stance of passion, and feel your mirrors of ancestry. This is all yours, so much as they are mine. Your gift is well attained, I can feel your words just as closely, just ast deeply that even their charm seems ridden, screaming as if you bled from the direct lens of perception, and from there, your soul with pen began. Speak as if your heart is this vital source, know that you are loved, wherever it cries, stand ready to reply that I Am, be this beauty in which you hold, as if time already declared, be always melting, and learn by your flame. Allow your ink, even as if by lip to taste richly the tongue you have summoned. the breeze by this every word you bleed, be it winter or May. Take that moment, That plunge into your frozen bath, let your mind release, I will hear in be there listening. I will know, and though whatever I may have relayed here you compelled, It is already within you and awaiting your flames to set us free. Set it free from our "IRREPARABLE CHARM" if you are the gift, the future, this desire, then Write...WRITE! As if life has already funneled out its legacy and fulfilled it to its rim...WRITE!!

[Jenny Lee]

You kill me dead, Perdition. Your words slay me as if each one draws a dagger. I will copy this note and paste it to study. Thanks, Perdition.

[Red Brick Keshner]

A beautiful poem, a haunting meditation on love, loss, and the passage of time. One that resonates with a universal longing for meaning and connection, while acknowledging the inevitability of change and the shadows of the past. Much enjoyed 🙏🏻👍🏻🕊

[Perdition]

But what of that reaching hand? What of its passageway, if time sits equalizing non-existence and love, or its haunting meditation relates to what truly resonates, then wouldn't all my faculties, wouldn't all my castles in the sand, be each one altered through means of empty reasoning? What if the star I choose denies me by way of its own existence, wouldn't the concept of change be merely self-induced and a fallacy of reality therefore completely within the construct of our consciousness...here we have the markings of the last mile of time which has had its run but I think it is marked and no longer holds that so-called water ...grateful all the same, and always a pleasure to read your insights...makes me take a longer look into the workings of my defusions/illusions. As always! Thank you as always so kindly RBK~

[Red Brick Keshner]

That feels like forgiveness could possibly be a sweet nectar within reach. How that eventuates could be swift or otherwise an epic journey. But then again, I have been known to misread on occasion. 🙏🏻🕊

[Perdition]

Oh, absolutely not! I was just throwing another thought out there. You seem a very intelligent poet so I thought you might have an interesting take on that as well and apparently I was right! The poem belongs to the reader always once it leaves my hands it is no longer mine, but I most certainly enjoyed your interpretation. Sometimes, if not most times I find that I may not even be the one writing the poem. I know you have to have had the same experience at least once while writing so cheers and thank you for sharing your take and thoughts on this one. Namaste and well done!

[Red Brick Keshner]

Yes, an astute observation there! And all thrown in/at/over thoughts welcome! Too many narrowly calibrated brains surround. Pity there is no room for language or thought to stretch out and expand… everything is code and coded, denoted, and prescribed. But that their choice to make, their prerogative… not a privilege nor an honour… a tangential thought arises hence: what of the connection between that inner struggle and that external and invasive school of thought that seeks its own consummation in our minds and spirits- colonising our process to be patterned to theirs, old boys club resurrecting.