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by Dave Young
through keyholes and window blinds,
swallowed up whole rooms,
laughing like the black caped villain
in a Victorian melodrama:
Ravaged winter trees
and silent cathedrals in silent cities
surrender to the night’s febrile fingers.
He yearns to shed himself of solitude,
an outstretched arm draped over a warm body,
but the darkness; that compass of the soul,
the hand in his hand, the voice in his ear,
cloaks him in sorrow.
Oh he is occasionally teased with trinkets,
but they are quickly returned to the black recesses of a drawer
he can never unlock.
Bathed in summer sun,
the light, soft and quiescent,
casually lengthen evenings.
Swifts and sparrows chirp their turf wars.
In flights of fancy the china roses bowed
in a crimson rage.
Bustling cathedrals in bustling cities
bask in fingers of light.
He was no servant to perfection;
Oh for the pleasure of a cooling wind.
He was no servant to perfection
Dark/Light, a new poem on my website page “A Last Lick. To READ and COMMENT go to http://www.daveyoungpoet.wordpress.com