wilson

The scars on your face spoke to me

Your hands, the most distressed leather, still steely strong

The weight of age has never broken and rarely even bowed you

A mother of light

Shuffling your dominion,

One pace this way creating a feasting table

One brushed gesture this, shaping a worshipping place

The honeycomb sacrament sucked dry

Coats every surface

A vehicle for that sweet sentiment

That we don’t share the words for

And I’d never finish it all but I carried it as far I could

Worker corpses and all, in a powdered milk tin

To a hotel bed where fever took me

And my departure began,

A parting meeting with a boy called Smoke

And a thousand things that I’ll never know

The structure of stories etched into your skin

A parchment legacy, a living lineage

Matching the radiant youth,

Hope for Hope, Smile for Smile

Balanced in equal beauty whilst I float between

And slowly drift away

A thin line connected to your fates barely holding

Growing colder, more strictly defined

And somehow brighter, I outline designs

To make it shine, embellished

But that which connects also separates

And touch can’t always match taste

So I hold a honeycomb memory underneath my tongue

Growing sweeter as every line marks my face,