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The taste of every single bitter word
reveals its meaning, and your flying time
comes by to cast on me a purple spell.
Oblivion... in every single line
of letters that I write, awaiting your return.
Although my voice is high, in silent flame I burn.
In absentia, does your love truly burn
or flicker, as the candle lights each word?
Paper tiger, troubled past no point of return
to patience which can’t abide the time
that you’re taking to drop me a line.
In dismal hell, I dwell for a spell.
In silence of the night, your name I spell
and curtains sway, and yellow candles burn,
but not for us; unless I outline
my memories of you: a mischief word,
a kiss, a second glance, you, taking time
to write, to cross a point of no return.
The white paper moon will wax and return
on pale origami sails blown by a spell
of trade winds tripping across time.
Saint Elmo’s spirit, in a ghostly blue burn,
shivers along each whispered word
that’s woefully printed, line by line.
I watch your sails sent over the line
of the horizon. Whether they return
or not, I will be at my window: and words
will ride the win, like feathers, like a spell
of crystal morning... Can you wait to burn
my letters, please, and look for me this time?
I can ill afford the ravages of time
that stack paper dolls into a white line,
and torch them into a gypsy moth burn
while sea sirens plot you beyond return.
Each force factoring in the last spell,
and jostling, for the heard last word.
Deciphering each word sand blasted by time:
Straining to spell cast across dew droplet line:
Surely, as tides will return, love letters won’t burn.
City (Olga) & Penelope
15/06/05
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"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent" - Eleanor Roosevelt
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