| This Edition's Poetry |
Moments In Exile I
And the world turns on a carousel spinning suspiciously in the universe. I want to be remembered tomorrow, so that there will be no question of my ability to ride. The depths of a man’s adventures are not measured by feet, but by millimeters. I must dig with diligence and with patience, so that I will not be crushed by the weight of those melodies sung in the universe. The world is caressed by the dangling fingers of centuries sensitive upon the face---its beauty prominent from a distant star. My skin slides down my bones influenced by gravity’s will, and I am reserved to the distinction of a relic. My tears puddle in the crevices of my wrinkles, and I mumble---incoherent prayers to any one that will listen.
I now know who you are, and I realize this is just the fulfillment of a previous agreement. An acknowledgment involving a glance--a smile--a thank you for being there. Tonight, I am thinking of angels dressed in white, with wings of pink, and hearts beating with Eve's laughter. There is an aura which follows me to my door, steps inside these impatience walls, and urges your image to emerge from shadows. Yeah, I am aroused by the comfort of shadows, therefore I am aroused by you, and I embrace this solitude with sincere arms. I still breathe your words, and I am warmed by your essence, and my skin still tingles from your touch. Alas, this is the curse cast upon romantics, fools, and poets.
by Neil Ray
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