Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry

In Memorium

In Memorium

when does memory fade?
not linger like dark cloth, a shade of deepest black
hovering over twilight glistening with silver stars
a white glass moon casting tides to ebb and flow
when does memory fade?
in the blue inky night, relinquishing its dull thick blackness
into crystal clear light

when does it fade and go?
Memories of monstrous red, glaring memories
Those of finest blue, pale as diamonds, fine as silt
layering one atop the other
memories glaring harsh yellow
memories hurtling objects across brain cells
harsh and yellow as the roiling sunlight, they should
die when exposed to such heat
alas, they linger, linger and glow in fire red
red again those monstrous lies and devious
tales, best warded off with incantations and rituals
left behind to fester in oozing green mire, sickly
thoughts compressed to aging memories, all glowing
phosphorescent, enlarged and swollen phallus of
deeds dank and drear
now leave them behind, as they should be
left behind to molder

such memory comes to one and all, at times like
creeping ghosts and ghouls in the midst of dreams at
midnight, waking one with screams piercing the night
as loud as fog horns on a dank sea,
left adrift without stars to guide a tiny ship, life, back to port
such memories dim in the light of day, often sparked by
image, sound or thought, dredged up, rankled with horror
and put to sleep again, solemn gifted sleep as angels
watch guard above, lolling on thick white clouds, wings
of gilt and silver, resting upon their backs
angels, carry me to sleep and memory’s quiet

in the glare of harsh white reality, white a color that
does not exist, white the color of absence, as black is
the presence of all color jumbled into a mass, white
shining is its own mirrored reflection, not as black
blacks has no reflection, unlike white, that which is
all reflection in mirrors
memories are white doves trailing olive branches across a sea
saying peace has come, destruction has ended, peace
has come in soft lavenders and other quiet hues, to soothe
a weary mind, bestill an aching heart of memories
too old, and wanting nothing but surcease, nothing but
eternal rest, nothing but liberation from their howls and
onslaught, nothing but the resurrection of harmony
colored in pastels framed in massive gesso and gilt frames
hung out to dry in stodgy museums, in hidden recesses
but peace will come, with rest, or finality, with death

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