06-07-2013, 10:41 AM
*I wrote this for my best friend, who passed away in February. Not to sway your critique in any way....just to make the purpose of the poem clear. Any and all advice is appreciated 
*
A profile like a Herculean hero carved into some ancient urn
Silhouetted against fogged glass and auburn sky
Light hesitant to touch the edges and contours of your skin
Framed by broad shoulders and unwashed hair
Fleeting grey glow of December evening encapsulating you
Searing your image into my memory,
The only way I have ever seen you -
Forever gazing out a window,
Tan lines and tattoos and a crooked spine just like mine
Breathing in smoke and pine and wet, cold earth
You sleep on a bed of mildewy carpet and pages of music
Written for green-sleeved maidens and satin-cheeked muses
With only fire and trapped exhalations as your blankets
No wonder you're tired, no wonder your spine is crooked
You grasp the neck of your guitar and bounce it against your calloused heel
A groan resonates from the inanimate body of the only lover you've ever taken
You are truly a minstrel if I've ever seen one
With the inky emptiness of the universe mapped out on your arms
A bittersweet melody builds up like steam on a mirror
Stirring up cedar chips and resting moths
It makes me think of cats dying, and I want to cry
Because cats never die with dignity
* A profile like a Herculean hero carved into some ancient urn
Silhouetted against fogged glass and auburn sky
Light hesitant to touch the edges and contours of your skin
Framed by broad shoulders and unwashed hair
Fleeting grey glow of December evening encapsulating you
Searing your image into my memory,
The only way I have ever seen you -
Forever gazing out a window,
Tan lines and tattoos and a crooked spine just like mine
Breathing in smoke and pine and wet, cold earth
You sleep on a bed of mildewy carpet and pages of music
Written for green-sleeved maidens and satin-cheeked muses
With only fire and trapped exhalations as your blankets
No wonder you're tired, no wonder your spine is crooked
You grasp the neck of your guitar and bounce it against your calloused heel
A groan resonates from the inanimate body of the only lover you've ever taken
You are truly a minstrel if I've ever seen one
With the inky emptiness of the universe mapped out on your arms
A bittersweet melody builds up like steam on a mirror
Stirring up cedar chips and resting moths
It makes me think of cats dying, and I want to cry
Because cats never die with dignity