Conversations with the angel of dawn

I fumble for my matches out there in the frosty winter
It's 11 degrees and 4 in the night
The angel of the dawn is already there
Sighing longingly and sitting on a ledge


I go sit beside him and he laughs a little and lits up the holy flame
That's all what its' good for now anyways lighting cigarettes and turning minds to ash


He tells me a story or two
Stories about failed lovers, cracks in the great wall of China and where the sea falls over the world


The regal lillies cry out their scent to give solace to his irreparably bittered soul
But under the constant erosion of a bygone millenia
He has long learnt to focus on the smell of shit and earth from where they grow instead


He then takes a drag, a drag so deep it sucked all the coal factories of this world dry
And ran his fingers through my face, fingers burning as hot as the sun and yellowed by nicotine
Just as he was about to tell me the secret recipe


As to how love makes every trash bag capable of writing poetry and song?
How it's blindness has made man blind to all but hope and immune to scorn?
How the world rotates on the tips of her delicate fingers?

The call to the morning pollutes the sky
He laughs, a bitter crooked laugh and lits up my cigarette one last time
And illuminates the sky orange waking it from its slumber of deep blue
The sparrows and the bluebirds all sang to greet  the day fresh and newborn
Yet I sighed and looked longingly over the ledge
Feeling as though I wore the same soiled clothes after a shower 
And I saw, from Tokyo to Egypt and Israel to Mecca
People sighing and putting out their cigarettes, some gazing longingly and some jumping from these same cursed timeless ledges

tired

◄ Sermons of A Turnip Farmer

A revolver's grim prophecy ►

Comments

MortimerBlooming

Thu 28th May 2020 13:36

Heaven is there for hope John, how disappointed will men be to learn this is all we got,

The feeling is mutual Po

Mortimer

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John Marks

Tue 26th May 2020 15:21

"A man's reach should exceed his grasp. Or what's a heaven for? " Robert Browning, Men and Women, 1855.

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poemagraphic

Sun 24th May 2020 16:38

You can't beat having a good fan.

I think I am one

MortimerBlooming

Sun 24th May 2020 16:28

Light and hope is always bound to be extinguished, that is why it is so important for us to vigorously fan the flames as long as we can,

Thanks for your kind words Po

Mortimer

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poemagraphic

Sun 24th May 2020 13:51

What an epic piece of mastery this poem is.

Captivating from the first line to the last long dragged out verse

to leave a dogend for us lesser mortals to burn our fingertips on. Drawing every last ember to extinction.

All light and hope extinguished.

Dam I'm addicted to poetry like this.
Po

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