flock of phantoms
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blackbirds …
innumerable …
clouds and washes of them
I grin to myself -
symbolism …
you taught me that
and more … (and less)
you taught me the difference between
love and lust … and Love
but you used a dull knife to cut,
and those wounds fester …
I still tend them, despite decades
you were younger than I
but far more experienced … wiser
I could never repay the tender
patience you showed me -
(precious, that)
I tried …
with effort and sincerity
(and apportioned bent for the fleshly arts)
but, you see
your callow honesty was covenant to me
as sure as moonlight on mountain snow
and in my wide-eyed faith I failed to
see the changes of maturity
(or perhaps REFUSED to)
and your direction snuck up on me -
that altered course was hidden from me by
the mist of hope
until what should have been a gentle curve
became a roadblock
a cold, stark, unscalable bastion that
impacted headlong
and at full tilt …
it brought forth a part of you
I had never known
and its cleft … was cruelty
something I had not imagined you capable of
thus …
the deepest wound was not the
reality of losing you
or the knowledge that our oaths -
made in the purity of youth -
had become thistles on the wind,
it was that there had been this ruthless,
unkind part of you all along -
a bitterly contrary essence of your soul
that I had never seen
in the countless times I had
swum deep your glimmery gaze …
each, now, as a blackbird in my sky
just as enigmatic
just as untold,
and just as …
unreachable.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2024
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