Byron Taylor
I am the face of your futurity,
I am the scope of your skill
The hemispheres of your head.
I am the leaves that
Sweep your spirit’s streets,
And the Sun that rekindles
Its dynasty each Spring.
I am the portrait that
Stares back at you, the
Lamplit mirror – befuddled and calm.
I am the eye of your
Anxieties rifle:
I am the bullet that never arrives.
I am the tide, in it’s
Thickening layers, the Moon
That toys with it, like a pet.
I am the summation of
Your every whisper, your
Multitude of vaporous dreams,
That sift amongst the lilacs
Of a garden you have seen,
But never entered through
Its paint-rimmed gate.
I am the hands of the clock
That toil and punctuate;
The flesh of your lover
That rises and softens,
I am the lanterns that
Swing above Chinatown,
The wind that embalms
You with faraway peace.
I am the scissors that
Cut open the ribbon,
The blood-red sunset of
Killamangiro, the sanctuaries
Of Tibet that hum and hum.
Light ricochets downwards
In spires, down from
The dusty sunbeams of the Church windows.
Within, there is lined up, perched
Expectation, expressions
Distracted or receptive.
Time is elastic, and
As our gestating evenings
Collide with the dawns
That follow, I am the shadows
That stretch languidly
Like liquid
Across the districts of your threading hair,
And the territories of your skin.
I am the Utopia
You desperately construct with
Tear-stained fingers, and
Midnight ruminations
That echo like a train.
I am your deepest
Fear, the one that lurks
And rushes around you and
Breathes on your neck – yet,
Even when it does, you
Never bring yourself to turn
And see. I am your deepest
Dream, as equally obscure:
Like a kingdom seen through water.
I know where the river runs
Thick with
Blood, I know
Why the caged bird still sings,
How treacherous trees wind
And weave as they
Stutter for daylight,
I know where the
Useless, narcissistic dreamers
Laze impotently in their
Dreaded haven. I know when
The thoughts fold in
On each other, like cards,
I know why the aerial splinters
Never land in our widened mouths, in
Our gaping hands.
I know why the audience applaud
The actress, on whom they
Shower with every fleeting dream;
I know the cities where
Ruin stagnates, flanked with
Fumes and turrets, where
Guards encircle heads and
Hearts, where principles
Perish, where flags mock the domain below,
and disasters conflagrate at it’s foundations.
