You Before

I
There isn’t much in my numb resolve
That I fail to think of; who I fail to see
Through the yellow still walls of
Wall Street, Floor Four.
And through the door without a wreath,
Past hardwood floors that stretch to the
Granite tiles,
Granite ceiling and soul!
The kitchen spotless from the time
We once spindled here before.
And into some familiar room….

Where through fuzzy unblinking eyes
You watched me squirm, revealing
My dreams of you scorned.
Now I sit, without your traffic signal
Eyes to assess my (most) difficult choices.
The walls are more yellow than they were before.
And the air seems thicker, almost heavier by choice,
While all my choices weigh thicker than smoke.
How dark to not see you
From the darkest window, tonight,
Nor in the patterns of where we sat before.


II
Strange that I now address you.
Even when you’ve nothing left to feed
An emaciated, lactose soul.
Where else is one left to go,
stranded on this side of Jackson Street,
When he is devoid of God and Spirit…
But have I no book?
You would Think,
But I’ve given up on the Know.
Since I used to Think
(That I Know).
That was then; This is tonight,
Where in silence you shine
Brighter than the world who has
Softened dimmer than
The yellow aging light.

Strange that I now sing of you.
I would do too much to bring you
From hells into the whisper shells:
If truly you are kept hidden
in the page of the yellow wall,
(Which pains me, as much, to think)
Then stay away from the fringes,
They make willows out of leaves,
And become my beautiful sister;
And be rid of trespassing brothers
with your flowing voice
like mercury bells.


III
Strange that I still revere you,
While the city lights yearn
To reach inside the granite hold;
There are just too many worms
In the dirt of my soul.
And if this month runs drier
Than the nights have worn thin,
Then perhaps I won’t get to dream again.
Or, if the flickering sky fits the mould,
Perhaps I'll dream from before.
I hope, cleanest and most edged hope,
That I never feel to return back
To who I once revered before.
I am writing on the yellow walls again,
Yet this time not ashamed!
To paint this dream on the door.
And still, I hide behind my body of old.
So much more clever
And alone
Than before.

Yet when God finally wakes me,
I’ll stir from where we play all the more—
In the glorious folds of you before.