PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Isolated in your crowd of eyes

In the night circus, on the

park bench

We share our deleriums.

You're pretending not to cry.



You said, 'I need fire and to

feel the heat,'

And I have to say that I am

not real,

That I exist about as much

as a thought.



I am real as the holes in

a cotton string vest.

'For the sake of heat you

must burn.'

And you continue to cry

in cupfulls

All the while unreal.



'We can burn the pulpit,

let's go to

Church,'

You smile faintly, through

the diamonds,

Waxing iconoclast,

'Carry me there.'



No. For the sake of the

real,

I will not go.

The Church is closed,

Closed to the night and

we are the night.



There is more crying.

I feel your infection.

I say, 'Dance with me now,

my fuel, my fire,'

But poetry dies here



And you are losing this.

To love life only is to

live,

Your eye fire has gone

black,

I can see you swansong

coming.



So I promise I will carry

you back here

To your final hazy oasis,

Away from the land of

artificial comas

And tourniquets, and lay

you down in the

grass.