Was

I met a man married to the past,
and married him,
and his eyes stayed fixed
on what he thought could not be altered,
and his vision lied,
intercutting
          scenes of glory and grandeur
onto the picture of who he thought he was,
and so the light of sound was always lost on him
and our then now
paraded past
with dull veneer
and what was
       was what
        always glistened.

He had disinfected past.
Hammering with heat
of what he wanted,
he polished into
glint, the pieces,
producing slag.

I tried to introduce him to innovating tincture,
but disenchanted, he staggered back.
I tried to
tantalize him
in sepia flesh
to synchronize with story but I tore softly, over time,
within his grasp.
His fingers moved
as fast as his
lips feeling my
face to find
his own
reflection
and when the mirror finally broke,
the ground beneath us caved.

He took pictures, then,
of self and hung them
through the house-
dust encrusted,
stale art.
I indulged
flat form
but longed
for flesh
and blood.

He was as immovable as his portraits,
unmarred by truth,
and I, too, became
a prisoner
to his nostalgia
until, unpruned, I bloomed like wild lilac
upon his frame and took on exposing tint.
In wistful hope
of integration,
    I tangled
with his guise
but when gallery turned to garden,
he took his shears,
                        and cut.
Released and banished,
I mapped my chance
at cultivation.

I left behind a figment but took
             his ghost
and now I have to squint to see the sky.

The Sunday Whirl

The Mag