Jim

This is part of a project I worked on for a friend a few years ago.  What a journey he’s gone through!

As the night begins to shine its light on the west– waking Pacific eyes, this one does not sleep.
But dreams in speeds brushed tight; the lure of stale nights.
Have another drink, just a taste to cure the nip– mixed with a lover’s hot breath and cotton briefs.
Learning as he goes, willing to con and weave, hiding his true self from the world.  What a pity he cannot learn in mimsy when the day glows low and candles perk up flames burning spoons to bend and crust
his wild heart fills–lust for another man, suppression finally erupts from within.
And now he sits in wallows, makes treks in dirt and mud, up blood through veins he yearns and wastes away.
Tequila did not chase his demons out, just wines and dines them through another night on pills and fairy dust.

Crying, he longs for the love benevolence has stolen away.

Remember the times she held you close, came running in the middle of the night to chase the demons out.
“Come back.”  She will not.

Left behind:  a child bearing the burdens of life.
Only he can relive, a mother now, in his own right,
but thrown to the wayside– awash: the floor with lustful sweat, his pores  bleed and want for the love he never received.
God bless you my child. He lays to rest.

On nights like this he breaks, breathes in filling lungs with God’s grace. The mortar surrounding his heart broken down now,
by divinity.

This boy, he soaks in rock, pavement churned up to prevent the masses from experiencing the flood– his flood.  Rainstorm he cannot hold shelter from.
In the distance wafting bold he charges, racing toward the sun—still,
fisting back the first rattling bottle that comes into site,
slinks across the floor boards, white snake loops, meets palm then disappears into darkness.

Yet, he dreams in colors that scream his name.  In yellow he hopes to fade onto orange and mash with this powerful sting that is life a blaze.
A beating drum sings Time’s praises,
and though sense would nay-say his existence, he is still here.
So, raising hands high; embracing golden flush of revelation: he is still here!

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