Three Poems Marcus Hines Fictitious Fictitious, she is, amber is the shade of her iris I carry the scent of her with me or so I want to believe That it still lingers on my lips. But in truth, she’s always out of my reach It all began with a lucid dream of the highlands, wind dancing through the fields like a symphony As if she conducted it herself. Until the sun set behind her Casting a silhouette that gently blanketed the hills All was covered except a house with fractured brick and forlorning steel The door is of rotting sycamore, broken picture frames and damaged window panes welcomed me inside Closely, I was running my hands along each crevice of the walls, digging out chips of lavender from beneath the skin of my palms It was dark, but all too familiar as I made my way towards the kitchen, where there is a mahogany table Only to ever be accompanied by cobwebs and a candle. Smoke stained glass was scattered like pieces of a puzzle Perfectly symmetrical across the floor. I walked atop it with bare feet, it never drew blood But deeply left a scar. From the bedroom, my full name being called Where the shadows slowly took form, to fill in the curves of a woman Biting the scarlet dipped nail of her thumb. Moonlit skin, her hair was kissed by the ocean sand That was cascading near endlessly over her spine. I tell myself this is fiction, but I bring myself here every time To the exact moment I found myself hers, but she’ll never be mine
Midnight Hours Another morning of waking up to dial tones that seem perpetual Churned guts carry a soul that feels woven in between forlorn steel All stemming from a dream, I was scaling the pearly gates but rust has corroded all the gold I saw you on the other side trying to catch your breath, holding tightly to an old rosary until your skin began to peel When I awoke, cigarette burns and wine stained screen-doors tell a story of the midnight hours But I ever so ungracefully steadied my limbs and made it home Just maybe my angels have their fingers crossed or hell has indeed frozen and has no vacancy Nevertheless, I tend to always find myself searching for your voice on the receiving end of this phone Before I close my weary eyes and rest these bitter bones, contemplating if I should mend or grieve From dusk to dawn, your aesthetic still gently lingers like a counterfeit silhouette
Lost Lake Folk Opera 101
