Poem

I would like my words to be
kept somewhere safe while holy light
burns in and out and through and through
and all the dross goes ashen white.

I would like these words to see
the better of those latter years,
and feel the joy, the lingering
of truth all through the death and tears

that will destroy both you and me.
I would like my words to stay;
not as my words, but to remain
as lanterns somewhere on the way

to show us what you’ve always been.
I’d like to see that: see those words
fly, disembodied, celestial, high
above the dross, above, like birds –

No, more. I’d like to see what flight
must mean to otherworldly birds
when gravity’s no hindrance to
their wings, for I have sometimes heard

whispered rumours of such things.
I’d like to hear those whispers surge,
hear my words join in the chorus
of those voices as they merge

and amplify, become a scream:
I’d like to scream along with them –
But would my voice be suited to
such perfect noise? For when

I scream, it’s with hate and ash
and lust and death; not with truth.
Then let my words be all you hear,
not my voice. Let my words be proof,

or, if not proof, faint testaments
to what, by then, will be so clear
that these words I speak will only be
one line, one note, one faint, one mere

word-arrow to the bright truth that
skies, clouds and spheres will surely shout.
I’d rather such a humble state
than lose my words when dross burns out.

Yes, I would like my words to be
kept somewhere safe while holy light
burns in and out and through and through
and all the dross goes ashen white.

I would like these words to see
the better of those latter years,
and feel the joy, the lingering
of truth all through the death and tears.