He spent wary days
searching a lifetime of chapels
for kneeling saints.
He pulled white rabbits
from limited edition Lincoln
replica top hats.
He healed dying women
with herbs and scapulae
in countless foreigh huts.
He chose six winning lottery numbers
according to a variation
of the Fibonacci sequence.
He watched rippling waves
lapping at his calloused feet
on the shores of a blue lake.
He met the love of his life
in a small Kazakh village
as a bullet punctured his heart.
He was dying in a makeshift chapel
beneath a kneeling saint.
His body spasmed as he gasped.
To his love he whispered with his last breath,
'Before you, I only believed in irony;
But now I believe in miracles.'
She didn't understand him.
4 comments:
Ho! What’s this? Some blessedly smart stuff, some very good writing…not just on this fine Sunday of life lived for no reason but one’s own comprehensible reason, but on all of September’s young days. It’s a miracle. I’ll be back to read June :-D
Beautifully done, and deeply affecting. It was good to discover you here. Like missalister, I look forward to returning.
such beautiful images. I particularly loved the line when his heart was pierced by a bullet.
He was dying in a makeshift chapel/
beneath a kneeling saint./His body spasmed as he gasped.
Really like how you return the image of chapel.
Post a Comment