I met a girl
who claimed
she cast the
moon in the image
of a dead man’s
breath
blowing through
the sulphuric
sound that surrounds
the sum
of our silences.
In this still
point, where words
shatter from
their sentence,
crash through
cacophony
and die an onomatopoeic
death,
she lived inside
a metaphor
of her loves.
It was one of
those moments
when words will
say only half
of the nothing
we are thinking.
I met a girl
who snapped
the bones of
winter from the earth,
bent them to
a frozen form of birth
and buried them
beneath the
gravelled snow,
to bloom once more
from summer's
grave.
And when she
told me love
is the last sentiment
to die,
the groundquaking
dawn
drummed through
the legend
of her eye its
solitary note,
razing the night.
It was one of
those moments
when words will
fill only half
of the void we
are living.
I met a girl
who believed
in the endless
repetition of time.
That day she
sat upon my palm
and taught me
how to hold a dream,
love tipped the
Libran scale
to perfect balance.
There
is a halcyon colour to the sky,
where, adrift
on the sea of her
eye on a collision
course with
my horizon, I
thank the star
that guides my
tideturned vessel
ship-to-shore.
It is one of
those moments
when words will
write only half
of the memoir
we are making.