Won’t be spoken

A small red house, perched between some trees,
they put the flag right outside, three colors,
fiery blood, unwaivering gut, and sweet innocence.
All in a shudder of a flutter like an eyelid.

On the step that old friend,
open arms and knowing smile.
Last time we met, small peck,
some tears, before I left and walked
along that river into the sunrise.

That night I had talked like mad at her brick head,
so it might set on my shoulder and find some rest.
I had shivered and whispered in her ear:
“Just come on home! — Just fall into my arms!”

Back then, very same smile, a sob,
sharp shake of her read head and that
gesture of open palms raised up to the sky,
begging for a scrap of its eternal wisdom.

Now I’m back, even further from home,
in Paris, that dirty, rotten city on the Seine,
where you still feel Zion beating through your boots.
That sound that goes straight to your gut:
“Sweat, love, fuck, here’s to these crazy thoughts you have,
it’s all mankind has to put up.”

So this is me and I am here,
there shall not be,
more profound words,
ever spoken.

A thousand people on these streets,
I have not walked nine years,
below us all, there is this soul,
crawling and scratching at the outer core,
to break through and infect a nation
with dedication.

Freckled girl on her tips,
lets her arms dip, her hands flip,
standing on the river dock,
to get her heart shipped overseas,
where it will surely make its luck.

That good which shan’t and can’t be provided.

You can fill a night with old memories,
but a good friend always crawls
under your skin and makes it burn and tingle
for the raw and bloody manifold.
Sticking past, you sure are enough, but shouldn’t,
pure want bears the unknown new.

One day, she wrote a single line:
“I got a ticket, pick me up”.
That propeller plane on the tarp,
she, red-dotted dress, shoulders slouched,
made me want to put a knife in the gut,
of the man who made a lover
who never felt so safe,
she got the itch to fight.

With her, I tried reason, that great treason,
to our nature, the killing truth;
silent reflection that
turns her world to stone.

Sacred heart, cut-out trophy,
on display under an ancient archway,
they build a church around.
Her’s were the stairs we sat on,
when she laid her head to rest on
my chest and said: “Let’s start a war,
that we can’t win.”

Nine years ago.

A scene from a dream, made with a pencil,
so we can fill it up and ink it in,
this is what it means,
nine years away from a city to
find some peace,
nine years to be
back to how we were:
the restless, hapless, unreal,
unrelenting, bruised and branded,
truly alive souls we choose to be.

“This is me and I am here”,
my face a smile, my palms facing up,
there won’t be more profound words
ever spoken.