~You Were~


All light fades--
it becomes
something different,
something stranger
like abstraction
and old glass
in your hands:
I think it's childish
the way you stand
waiting
with cupped palms
held skyward.
I don't know what
you're waiting for;
what draws
that expectant smile,
bloodless thin cut
across your face
even as the rain spatters
and smears
the features that barely
softened
such perfect and inhuman
eyes.
I think. . .
I might fear knowing
what you're waiting for.

And you're cold.
Like you were always Cold.

And you're death.
For you were always Death.

I take your hands--
seperated
from the blackened sky
your smile grows dark,
your eyes less apologetic
gemstone
and dyed ice:
I find it somewhat
disturbing
how childlike
charming
your laughter is.
I can't understand
what you're saying;
what words
slip carelessly
as discarded
costume jewelry
away from you,
smoke that curls from
your hands
in vague kindergarten symbolism.
I think. . .
I might be afraid
to understand what you're saying.

And you're warm.
Like you were always Warm.

And you're life.
Because you were always Life.

Some strange metaphor--
like the missing
years folded inside you,
years spent swimming
in indigo
azure:
you are almost
regretful in my mind's eye
behind that passionate
impassivity
that defines you.
I don't know what
you are;
what breed
of angel and-or
of devil could smile
that way,
and cradle the moon
with human hearts in
their hands
until all is dark
frozen.
I think. . .
I must be afraid
to know what you are.

And. . .

You're. . .

(Staring out the window
wishing it would rain again)

Like you were always. . .

(lost in the reflection of
your eyes inside my mind again)

And. . .

You're. . .

(drawing pictures in the frost that
lingered where your touch would leave)

Because you always were. . .

(coloring outside the lines
in shades of storm and prophecy)

And you. . .

And you're. . .

And you. . .

And you Were.



~(c)10/01 The Mad Poet (A.K. LaBelle)