Word of You

Word of You

Beneath an atrium of glass,

now cooled from outside’s

daylight fire,

I settled down to sit,

to wait.

Is everything alright?

Is anything okay?

Could soaring walls,

that held their place

with girders left and right,

give way?

 

There’s no allowance left to think.

 

Until today, when word of you

depended on some strange,

unknown alignment of

some random stars.

When word of you had

been reduced to surgeons

suturing your scars.

When word of you,

as yet unformed,

had been deferred.

 

The heat, though held by walls,

just would not wait outside.

 

And sliding slowly inward,

to ignite a kindled mind,

the flickers of a first formed thought.

Then flame.

Then conflagration.

 

And a steady, slow destruction,

deconstructing walls once firm,

like footage from the TV news,

of old historic forms

brought down:

The thought,

and fear,

of you as gone

when word of you would come.

 

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