The Smoke, The Wind, And Hearts Of Flame
Standing, admiring, the flame.
by Max McGovern
The smoke reaches out for me, tickles
my nostrils with the scent of Church.
The flame moves lower on the stick of incense.
The grey trail of ghost-like fingers dance forth,
Caress the skin of my face,
And remind of the kisses from her
That I never had.
A wind from outside the window whispers comfort.
A flicker in the glow disturbs its rhythmic swaying.
Wordless breath extinguishes the note-less song,
But the smoke lives on, taunting, tearing;
or maybe just unspeakable meaning.
And in the fragrant darkness,
Her animated face drew itself upon the shadows.
Her illuminating smile etched indelibly in the benighted ceiling.
Like a neon light, comfortably close to my earth,
Patronizing the beauty of a star-less midnight sky.