Shattered Beauty, Broken Silhouettes

Shattered Beauty, Broken Silhouettes

I.


    Laying there languid,
    drown-dead in a fraught black ink, massless—
    That Cambridge Moleskine,
    perilous & perfected in Chaos’ brilliant prison…
    Spent, the soul
    trembles by eternity, is cut by words
    (Within the tome’s turmoil, laced & diamonded).


    All the while, it rests amidst the dust
    as
    The depth of the day subsides;
    the silver silence of the night
    Stalks every cognitive scratch, snuffing its lustre, fervid & forgotten—
    rendering all unwritten…


    The Tybalt-massacre of morning breaks:
    the window’s light reveals, abashed, a cup of revelry.
    Pages torn, notes askew, flutter-puzzled
    by the enigma of poetry to be,
    That fired illumination,
    seeping into the paper’s colours
    caught in a kintsugi-kiln of divinity.
    The sunlit ecstasy of a golden aura, enticed.



II.


    I turn back time
    to that day, November 13th, 2013.



III.


    The first glance,
    an apparition that thunders shivers—
    Bittersweet as a stolen kiss, electrified.
    the transit, shuffles & seats this student before me.
    Her hair, bright-gilded as Margareta’s tresses
    falls in a trepidation-splendor,
    comet-tails a-spiraling! afore my speechless reverence.
    Her limber figure, shoots spikes of elation,
    as I look at the embroidery,
    Her stockings black vipers along her long legs—
    cut neatly by a red, red dress.
    A howling star of heavenly features superfine & sharp
    Screams beatitudes to me blindly boldly,
    as if a Florentine stonemason chiseled her face;
    The gods wrecked by jealousy & jest, infinite.
    she turns another page of her book, vexed—
    A political account of Chernobyl, that boils her very being;
    that weighty knowledge of death
    Flowers her heartstrings and thighs.
    A play of glances, and with each smile,
    the world is on sex.



III.


    The scent of another woman before her, most pleasing.



IV.


    That way about her, living oceans, those direct eyes look at me. Engulfing me in love.
    I gaze back at my colleague, effortlessly transfixed.



V.


    Flowing as a bird, I shadowed a European woman in a regal dress
    for a few steps, syncopated heartbeats—
    Betwixt kind flirting.



VI.


    Then, then, my friend—
    a woman of the orient, faculty and fertile.
    She swayed her hourglass hips,
    ever subtly,
    A pendulum,
    As she scaled the stairs in style.
    Wise-footed.



VII.


    The fallen poet’s poem on beauty, half-torn and half-lost.
    Spencer dies a fool, today.



VIII.


    She twirls her hair in knots, anticipating.



IX.


    A name-day cake, decadent, I yearn for wifely companionship warm.
    The scores of cream, a delight by her hand.



X.


    She is keen to write more, this pre-law student—
    and I am ever so gentle with her,
    Pointing out the flaws of her argument;
    the learning continues as a lovely labour,
    And we exchange ambitions to meet
    upon one of Queen Mary’s balconies
    Staring over the river amidst midnight fires!
    Star-knotted by fate.



XI.


    Time catches up with me;
    night falls fast.
    I wait at a bus stop—a fellow beside me.
    he begins to talk,

Green scarfed & vagabond.

    his accent and quaint brown beard
    Brings a hearty presence, reciprocated.
    and we make quick of words, debating philosophies of love…
    As I learn about this wandering chef,
    from Montréal, Michelin-trained, internationally experienced
    Along the African coast and the ports of Queensland.
    a free spirit in tune with the gifts of the land;
    Harvesting fruits wherever they might fall,
    he plucks them as I search tirelessly,
    For that kindred lass
    to adore among these roughly beating suns
    That splinter our intentions, pure!
    and I was awestruck, heaven-cleft
    with that last impression, my sight regained.



XII.


    This day is but a memory—
    A broken silhouette.