Late Last Night

A forbidding sky looms above,
Spits tears of maddened frenzy,
They dive and slice and cut like knives,
Your tears and mine,
Till I am cut so apart it would take
Isis to piece me back embalmed;
But when did death stop anyone:
Dead lovers of ancient times; their
Unseen chink, back alleys and hidden glances.
We all wind up dead in the end,
Why not die in an interlocked tale of hatred and sensation,
Amid the lightening and rolling thunder which
Threaten to topple this crystal tower of emotions,
Valuable, yet fragile.
Why not?

Why not forget what we’re told?
Why let life slip and dwindle through
Splayed hands clutching at sands
That sink away to nothing,
Measuring time which leaves?
Why watch a youthful garden bloom and die,
From an unmoved spot at the sill?
Why be so conformed by place and position
Which only confines if you allow it to?
Why chose this over wreckless summer days,
Perfect eyes, and things that won’t change?
Sit in a new frame of mind by that
Dust collecting sill,
Then rise, and leave and know
That “wrong” is only as wrong as you allow;
Remember that life is subjective,
And meant for living,
And a vase already broken,
Already wronged, now
Will never forget the usurper who knocked it down from place,
So why try to piece it back,
When the final piece has long since gone?

There is a silence now, all consuming,
But like a blank canvas it needs painting;
Don’t paint it black,
But dance the brush under moonlit skies,
And colour the wanderers who
Lay down amid nature,
And do they lie together?
Paint; paint it in words and notes,
And see.

See that I said I’m sorry but am tired,
Never do the dice land in my hands,
But see that a cloud blowing across the sun
Soon passes, then the sun shines once more,
Dries the rain that gashed me.

I flow on the Styx,
Two pennies in my hand,
I ripple to my hell, or
Life after that sudden death late last night.