The Night Is Calling Out

Written on December 5, 2010

In Night, saints sweep through the houses,

to those who near the shade of whispering shrouds-

in tied up blouses;

slipping words through to rooftops

for ghosts to catch in nets,

to prance upon the topsail winds,

below the eyes of Van Gogh skies

for rest.

A sincere extinguish of the candle’s final flame,

that everlasting wish, wholly

from the lover’s name,

to dance as the ghost

to know the newborn heart,

to love the night at most,

to soar as if a lark.

The games one has lost

are the games one has won,

the sting of Winter’s chill

turns to Springful Sun,

that love one has longed for

will be warm as Summer rain

to drop against your skin

to ease the weary vein.

To those who’ve kissed their loves

left ‘lone

on the tomb of one’s gravestone,

where all but faint whispers

echo the voice you once knew,

so fondly felt,

someday it’ll shake like dew;

one’s love is strong, no doubt,

and in turn, your heart,

the strongest flame that’s never put out.

They will lay a hand to breast

close their eyes, to bless

with rest,

to harpoon the cape

with a lasting brooch;

paint the last kiss

on the ancient lip,

draws out the final breath, swallow,

sinks deep through the chest.

Ghosts will prance

from rooftop to rooftop,

sailing through the milky white

with warm content in every flight-

under Van Gogh skies

where we’ve questioned the road

of its maplight glimmer,

it will grow dim

and fade,

just as is the candle,

that will put itself out.

When there lay imprints

in the snow,

one may want to retrace exactly

to that ancient, youthful glow;

but youth is always with us,

buried in our hearts,

like the candle that never fades

it will always remain the same,

what we leave behind us

makes us immortal all the same.