Malachim (Reprieve For Dry Urns) Poem by Luke J. Holt

I speak your name in times of reflection
in some enlightened moments
you reply
in others i can hear you scoff at my irrevocable devotion
i can feel your eyes screaming across our silence
((Bandaid radiowave, wounded winds you bring to mornings meager of mist))

you are a myth now
a vixen of fable
a cotton-winged vessel for these words and the pivotal, silver days that inspired them
you are always ahead within the dream
and i race the wisp of melody your shimmering giggle sings
now i know why i sleep so much