Andrew Foreman | + Follow Poet |
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We'Re All Hungry Ghosts

How intoxicated I am with the swirl of armies, bodies and armor.
Trampled by those running away from or running to war.
But we're all hungry ghosts,
moving towards our deaths with a casual sense,
as if passersby to an accident.
I think of her and smelling her wrist,
whilst she slept next to a fallen statue of a grieving angel,
half-male half-female image we both found beautiful.
I loved how she was bothered by the routine of life,
needing a present of flowers in an old jar, 
set on table to see as she glided down the steps,
carpet worn and faded.
The swirl of a half-translucent dress as she passes through sunlight,
feels my eyes upon her and smiles.
Dust dances in a column of light and scatters,
as she moves from darkness to me.
Woman is the word for god on the lips and hearts for all men,
and I close my eyes.
(I can feel her next to me like a premonition on a deserted street).
Now, in the rubbish of hours and in a land of blue sky and wretchedness,
I wonder who she smiles for.
Ah, in the distance I hear adhan.  In the distance.
All these other things,
worthless, vague dreams, 
only half remembered cares without destination or purpose,
were never as real as the vision of her promise.
A worthless sacrifice,
a horrible choice.
Was love something I dreamt,
while wrapped in oil, felt and darkness?
Now, only my dreams feel the footsteps of longing,
hobnail echoed, baked in clay,
and I awake confused, strange.
Like the seconds between flash to bang,
I know love to loss.
But for now, I blink as the rising pink orange of the sun,
suddenly lights the sky and surrounding to a blood red,
burnt to goldness the color of mustard fields,
shining animated as reflections on the desert,
shine, shine blinding into my sleep heavy eyes.

Copyright © Andrew Foreman | Year Posted 2016

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