Max ~~ anna hood

These days I feel
I’m only a shadow
iridescent as mist
an echo of old Stones
songs an invisible woman
speaking foreign tongues.
Silent as a fish.
Quiet as the dead.

Night thoughts are not
day thoughts and in winter
words tremble at the edge
of sleep messages
heavy with the smell of cold
heavy with regret
forgotten ideas
for things said or not said
thick with sadness.
Friends appear on indigo wings
now and again but mostly
drift by on a sea of past years.
Sometimes they die.

Flying is not all
it’s cracked up to be.
Damn hard work
mostly repetition
lungs pumping
with only the sound
of wings and voices
like broken mirrors
sliding between stars
dead planets
and words hurled in anger
never to be reeled in.
Sometimes you see the earth
as you’re falling.

An old friend died
the other day
burning a hole in the sky
taking with him his thoughts
his music, a violin perhaps
an organ playing Bach
shimmery in the cobweb corners
of my mind or maybe
its my own voice
crying.

We never slept together
I wish we had.