Goodnight, Sir Thomas

Dear Sir Thomas: Angels never fly too far away. Cherubs are pious messengers cloaked in ribbed-serpentine streamers; bathing themselves in a bemused shower of rainbow-lit banderoles. Stifled in an unseen internal silence - a clandestine court of guardians; our private angels, unassumingly, fold their winged extremities and gloriously chant messianic chorales without an operatic note perceived. No gestures. Nothing mumbled. The chosen few... we know better. Dear Sir Thomas: Weren't we uproarious then? Biting our lips and neurotically watching re-runs of Laugh-In; it reassembled our gamed hurt. It provided us with focus, but now - I'm acting as a disguised charlatan, borrowing strength from the cinders of a simple nature like yours (to camoflauge ) my own internal disfiguration. As for the brokenhearted - they silently weep. Dear Sir Thomas: Our heads are turned towards your smiling face. Remind us not about an unspoken unwanting or a silent forgetting - yet submerge us in the rememberance of continued happiness. The grins you spread upon our brows - were instantaneous and infectious. Your wonder. Your magic - irrigates our veins like a remembered shuffle of a whispered solitaire for two. Happiness - you reminded us not to forget about - the enjoyable outcome of an upturned frown. For it is our time - it is our moment... to grasp a minute in our hands, within a second, and ponder it's memory for an eternity. We all trip upon stupidity. We all shoot and stumble upon the benign. Dear Sir Thomas: An anonymous angel spilled my soul into tomorrow's chalice drowning me in your splendid miraculous dreams. For that special invitation - I wipe away my prayer-filled tears and thank you - as you now romp within an angelic entourage of embraced enchantment. Goodnight, Sir Thomas. In memory of a dear poet and friend - Thomas Bell