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

And it comforts me more than the countless threads that make up this tattered bed

Give up, give in, I forfeit, I’m drawn to you like a weathered anchor in a violent sea

Tending to your memory like a treasured garden, but all that buds is plagued with disdain

Harvesting precious moments while the winds roar as a constant, never to secede

One day may I hope to find refuge from this mischievous, vicious, love

Purpose

There’s a vulture perched upon the surface of your heart

Digging deep with jagged talons, never leaving you to scar

It whispers to me, gathering a bouquet of bones

Regardless of the pleas, there’ll never be enough love here for us both

And if you let me, dear, I can pluck it from your chest

Just concentrate on the subtle spaces between breaths

That is where I’ll be

There’s a serpent coiled inside your throat

Shedding countless shades, before it causes you to choke

I’ll brave the rapids of your veins, and climb atop your lungs

And if you let me, dear, I can unravel this mess behind your tongue

Just concentrate on the grey before morning comes

That is where I’ll be

There are teeth along the pivots of your soul

And they sink into my arms the harder that I hold

With calloused hands I will carefully cascade down your spine

And if you let me, dear, this madness I will bind

Just concentrate on the wounds that no longer bleed

That is where I’ll be

You are my purpose