Poetry

ideal man

we let the moon
wait at the river side for
a thousand years,
for days and nights alone, and
while the
winter danced around the sun
we tried to save the walking

prisoner and his satin
hunter's bike, that
trampled over
the oddities, from the moon,
from the dark and from
all it hides. we tried, at
least we tried.

we told him he'd find
clarity on reprise
mountain, and though it
crushed
his glass dreams on the
morning road,
we asked him to return

when the moon
was full
and spill it's secrets
then, like salt across the lake.
he was only a
man, after all.
how were we to know that

humanity can leave
the soul faster
than the sun at dusk.
so the war began in
may, they crushed us with
the world's
anonymous grenades,

and he's learnt to love the fight
now and today, so that
he can't think straight.
he's punching
letters through the cemetary,
remixing the armies
on the trains.

the empty garden tiles
spell out his name, so we
let him run errands with the
tiger candles, let him
play the bass on our
heartstrings. oh how we love him,
now that he's the ideal man.