To death of such things

I salute you.

 

I raise my glass high and see the chink

in its armour sparkle with the mystery of

pleasant false respect and in yours,

held down low, sneering in its deceived imprisonment,

the thumb print gripping tighter,

it growls like a hungry tiger, fur mottled and damp

with pain, your glass remains a silent predator.

 

I do not fear you,

however under your nightmare armour

you fear me,

why would you have not taken me yet,

fear me,

why would you not have found the excuse

to snuff out the candle and inhale the smoke,

to touch me, to stroke my head

and give me what I desire,

fear me,

you don’t fear me,

you are worried about the competition.

 

I await the cheer of celebration,

of the first firework of the November sky,

to moan about the waste of such frivolity

and the sacrifice that comes with the

burning sky and the floating,

new born virginal mist.

You glide into view dear friend,

I await the conversation,

I await the dreaming.

 

Are you afraid of me?

 

Ian D. Hall 2015