Categories
poetry

For a friend…

For the visually impaired, or those with a very dodgy device, the picture above is of a fiery red dragon on a white background. It has absolutely nothing to do with the poem, but it looks nice and it’s very easy to visualise and besides, I’m feeling very Welsh today.

You twist my cells until they almost
snap, then a tease until they do,
every move this mountain that burns,
steep falls, deep in the night,
flesh on fire, from every touch

What used to be such a carefree task,
a swim, run, walk, crawl, even,
this simple kiss, now becomes
a marathon, each mile, an effort, each
its own wall to overcome

Death? I have felt her breath, many times
her enticing grip, promises
of lilies and other valleys
which may be true, who knows
they often say they do…

But they walk whole, untouched
hands delicate, precise, know they care,
but still, it’s a knife, cutting
the she from me, slicing my veins
until I fail, or feel to be me at all,

Only when I write am I free
whoever I want to be, the girl
revealed, her light, skimpy skirt
flirts with the wind, dancing dirty
with my latest flame, my muse
for the night, he, with permission,
I can use and abuse, who, (a tiny tear?)
I may never see again

Only when I write can I ride
the largest wave, jump
from the tallest building, stopping
just before I touch the ground softly
as the world looks on in silence
stunned, as was I, that was a close call…

Only when I write
have I got you in my hand,
not the hand that tries to grip and misses
but that hand that holds so tight,
never lets you go, until we both laugh,
naked in our thoughts,
and I know, it’ll be alright.

Only when you write.