For We Were Angels

Written for the writers who stand strong against the monotony. A poem of finding strength in the promise of the sunrise.

We were kindred souls, he and I.
Well if you loosen the term.
We didn't speak like others.
We were both idealistic and we both wrote.
But we were never close.
We were planets that would collide, deflect, and find new orbits.
We held that distance through the vacuums and voids.

He was an Aquarius of Uranus
The burden boy.
The water-bearer.
He carried thought and yet could never deliver the words he needed
His sign was wave lines, not of water, but of air currents.
The windy, streamy, consciousness of thought that he sought to bottle.
But these thoughts were an invisible ink.
Water
And how he longed for a darker pigment to dye the strain.

Still, it is the Age of Aquarius.
He had the prepossesing features: The handsome vicade, the iconic name, a school of thought fostered on the brows of Beatniks and Bohemians.

And I too was a pupil of this school.
And I wasn't.

I'm Gemini of Mercury,
The messenger with the winged heels,
The communicator.
And so I wrote
My planet is only seen by the light of the sun.
Mercury, engulfed in flame, in want, in wanton word, will empower the morning sky.
My sign was of the Roman numeral for 2
And sometimes, I like to imagine who the two souls fused together in my being may be.
I think of Aristotle, of Balzac, of an antiquated Chinese woman finding asylum in the therapeutic and astringent taste of a timeless tea, the kind that enriches itself through the decades despite its loneliness in a dusty cabinet.
Janis Joplin and Scott Joplin.
Some historically accurate,
Some unknown,
Some uninvented.
Two,
One,
None of these souls?
All...
Reincarnation could make this possible.
Reincarnate the poet incarnate.
Every heartbeat and penstroke in sync through the click-click-ticking of time.
John Lennon?
I am he is, you are he is, you are me and we are all together.
And death is when we set the ginger flake to our tongues to cleanse the pallette and lose that bitter flavor of tea to time.
An endless album with an endless number of tracks,
An endless play with an endless number of acts.
And death is just the intermission.

So I said I wanted a revolution
And gathered upon the theory.
Something in which countless generations create new radicals in order to create,
Each trying to evoke life more perfect than the preceding.
I wanted to evoke!
I wanted to burn brighter than anything you had ever seen even if only so short as a firefly taking fireflight.
I wanted to chase my Bohemian Rhapsodies.
I am a Mercury after all.
The morning star,
The morning glory.
My white stands strong against the yellows and violets.

He and I though,
We were the dead philosophers.
The track record of we poets does not fare well.
We die young
In body.
In spirit.
Such short expiration dates have our souls.
Crane, Keats, Yeats, Elliott
We die to become new poets
To turn into a generation where the anthems and rhymes are the final words from our former lungs.
Reincarnation makes this possible.
The light in that mourning glory.
For we were angels that knew of love and death and liars and liberators.
We composed knowing that if we did not write today, we could not write tomorrow.

So here I write, the midnight philosopher.
Dead set on setting my words to the world.
That small burnt rock is fully immersed in the light of the largest known truth in the solar system.
Just as I am fully immersed in the light of tomorrow's sunrise.
And so I drink heavily from that teacup,
Taking in the last few cold, soggy dregs,
The last few words undone.
Let death come tomorrow.
Let it be the liquid sunshine that fills my lungs for I will sing regardless as I pluck the bittersweet from the tea.
Let it be the sickly muse of poets scattered through a solar system as they stroke their lyres.
Let it be.

For we have earned names, earned these marbled titles. Should our anthems spread, never will we rot.
Our final breaths will be carried far from us by those who saw love. And they will sing!

I write you this as a new identity, a name that is a synthesis of all ideals, of all poets and lovers that have brewed through time, a name that will outdo those who have since decayed into anonymity.

I write you this past 3 in the morning, of unsound mind and sound enough body, shortly before dawn when I will be seen in the highest light.

Author's Note

Please excuse the grammar/spelling/etc. Things happen and I lack a spell check other than that which sits atop my spine ;)

Reviews

[EylonBear]

wow. I have never read a poem like this before it is so out of the norm for now aday poetry. the way you set up the free verse almost makes it rhyme. this is awesome i love it. heheh and about the spelling I only saw one word but being as I'm not the best at spelling either maybe I'm wrong. Just to add one more time this poem is truely awe inspiring.

[Alyssa]

oh ym god, this was insanely impressive, ive never read a poem so engulfed in metaphores and imagry.

It was a beautiful piece, im truly in awe.

"Let it be the liquid sunshine that fills my lungs for I will sing regardless as I pluck the bittersweet from the tea."

"The windy, streamy, consciousness of thought that he sought to bottle.
But these thoughts were an invisible ink.
Water
And how he longed for a darker pigment to dye the strain."

[1809 Black Plague Decem..]

I like the fact that you both have something in common,
----mishy :P

[C. Porter]

this is really creative and thought-provoking. i really, really like it.