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.

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