Wreckage of History

It's not me thinking this. 

It's not me writing this. 

The words are just pouring into my thoughts,

like a Nile that pours into a sea that knows no bounds. 

Am I possessed by some lovely demon?

Am I haunted by a ruthless, relentless ghost?

To this monstrous beauty, my arm raises a toast. 

I smile when I think of her. 

Her voice throws me into worlds of wonder. 

The twinkle in her eyes; the sparkle between her lips

are dizzying sirens to a heart that leaps and skips. 

Her touch is the hush of warm winds

Bringing secrets to ears and calms to their ends. 

She has a graceful neck, and legs that reach eternity,

and a mind that meets paradise. 

I get lost in the maze of her mind,

but I don't want to find my way back. 

I don't want to go back. 

Against the storms of time, her smile sails through seas of memory. 

(Feelings blossom when memory begins to sprout).

The world seemed to go on forever before her;

now it's just too small,

like a room that smells of Woman,

and stretches its walls when she sinks her toes in. 

(One could size up the world between her fingers - in her palm,

and measure space, stars and the universe in her calm. 

One could fit black holes and galaxies in between her thoughts;

Without stirring a ripple; without raising alarm;

Without tossing a brow; without havoc or harm. 

I have sized up the world:

I love life, but the world is bullshit). 

Music stops when her ankles are far. 

Once I saw her dancing,

and felt the earth spinning under my feet. 

Then I saw her laughing,

Suddenly planets were shaken,

and from their orbits were taken. 

Her eyes were criminals - stealing the room. 

Make-up would ruin her soul. 

She and unearthly beauty go together

Like coffee and cream or man and coffee;

or dog and boy or catch and dog. 

She is a beautiful star on a wistful night;

a beautiful scar covered out of wasteful sight. 

Her charm is the colours of the sun descending from above,

and like a rainbow that is soaked in the light of the sun,

I am intoxicated. 

Here's the sin of my age:

Up against her, I have lost my rage,

then sat by a gloomy window counting the tiny dots

on a battered old clock until it comes back - 

Like an insidious attack -

but it never came back. 

It's never coming back. 

The clock never lied. 

The clock never had anything to hide. 

Time erases what life has written. 

Time robs what fate has given. 

Mountains crumble. Seasons fade. 

Black turns into grey; light into dark.

Flesh becomes bone. 

Bones turn to ashes. 

Beauty cracks like the walls of Troy. 

Beauty, like centuries, passes. 

In a glimmer of lightning; in a swing of a sword;

In a bat of an eye; in a drum of a heart,

Beauty, like a ghost, vanishes. 

Hers, though, is eternally sealed and seared in lingering memory. 

Her image forever dawns in the troubled skies of my mind,

sometimes brilliantly like a sun above thick clouds,

Other times quietly like a shimmering morning star shrouded in blankets of fog;

but always standing tall like an ageless Helen against the waste and wreckage of History:

Indelible for all eternity - a permanent tattoo on the skin of existence.    

I've known only sleepless nights

that have lost their way to city lights. 

I've been blind since the get go;

'Been groping in sorry darkness;

'Been a lonely Sphinx amid dust and ruins;

Been a prisoner; 'Been dead -

Dead!

I've been buried, and dirt settled

Over my chest, shoulders and neck,

but now it's like I'm seeing stars

move for the first time. 

Since the first flash; the first flicker,

Her eyes have been fickle moons mounting mountains;

Peering over star-freckled horizons of murderous anticipation.   

Her stare have been the very glare of resurrection -

The burning breath of life -

Shaping life in lively form. 

I was dead before our eyes met. 

Life is being between her eyes;

the rest is merely duty...and decay.  

By A. Guy