Author, Poet, Photographer
It was you,
stranger in a strange land;
possessed with eyes blue as hyacinths,
innocent as birth,
blameless as death's cold love
for all our brief imaginings.
You, who called from hibernation
all those great and sad perspectives
sharp with joy and desolation.
You, who faced me with such instant love,
that I, caught in the slowness
of low expectation,
almost failed to perceive
how in your voice "forever" breathed.
And through your life lost kingdoms moved,
and were restored to me.
That you should be the catalyst for this,
The last great journey of the mind,
where separation from the sound
of solar wind was healed.
Where I became the stuff of stars,
and knew myself to be at home
in strange unconscious streets, whose
temporal testament to many gods
flowed stoney through my blood.
That you, though unaware, should
see the super nova of my heart's
last true and guileless grief,
to leave a pulsar at my soul
so black, that life itself
is captive at my core.
That I should be made whole
for just one moment by your touch,
and meet again the Angel of the Elegies,
who at Duino had vouchsafed
a vision to a fellow mind
which would have understood
how through your eyes
infinity surprised my soul,
and startled me from sleep.
©James Rainsford