Edel Hanley and Shannon Carey contribute poems for Motley’s new fiction page
I DREAMT THAT I SAW YOUR FACE
I dreamt that I saw your face,
Pale and cherubic, candescent
In a black theatre,
And I cannot escape.
Your eyes bright, benevolent,
This place is ours, empty,
Yet occupied by unassuming youths
Thinking time is well spent.
You were likening to a phantom,
Staring into my soul, sordid.
You want to kiss me
Although it is seldom,
The show is over,
My phantom has soon vanished
So I begin to manoeuvre
Onto a glittery wet pavement,
I walk, intending to catch you,
As you leave too unaware,
And nod politely like a gent.
Lights dim, city sound lulls
Itself to sleep. Shops closed by nine,
Spectators going or gone,
All but I, stand at the gate and mull
It over as I search a sea of looming
Dreams, I conjure up auspiciously
Despite our turbulent path,
That we find ourselves tottering.
Not searching for pretentious love,
Or even sleep,
Green glowing lights overhead,
Congested traffic on the road above,
Voices laughing, pushing past.
In my head, we dance
Under a lavender moonlight,
If you would consider to ask.
You wore blue, of course,
What else is best?
I attempt to follow hollow footsteps,
Leaving the scene far more.
Tear shaped rain like insidious tears
Fall rapidly before me, and drift
Into a lugubrious lullaby
As it touches my fingertips, touches my fears.
Why do you always feel so inevitable to me?
As easy as the transience from dawn to dusk,
The twilight period when grey is all but
One with the silver linings of the sky.
Where vicious kisses mingle with fallen foliage,
And spoken words are few and far between.
You are more grounded than the roots of oak,
Yet take flight faster than the seasonal swallow.
In darkness you absorb me of my shallow breath,
And sap desire from deep within my fragile soul.
In morning we are engulfed by the sun infused flames,
And in the eye of the tornado our frantic words collide,
As blood runs sweet from swollen lips,
I am reduced to smouldering ash I can no longer fight.
So I flee without haste like the startled fox
My affections lie dormant awaiting your beckoning call.
Alas the wounds delve deeper than the mantles core,
From each new wave of fury the salt with vengeance stings,
You are thunder provoking the lightening’s strike,
Expecting ice not to melt as the fire roars,
Oh ye of little faith in this world should no more,
Than to abide to convention and conjure such hate,
To pursue such love in ashen clouds I will wait,
Fear not, there is such beauty in twilight for you to uphold.