frogcircus.org

the poetry of Charles Fry

post

2015–

defi

2009–2013

belle

2007–2002

dada

2002–1999

sundance

1999–1997

frere

1997–1995

julian

1995–1994

stone

1994–1993

2 December 2002

And at last.
Once again.
Together of sorts.
It is my hope that life is for you.
It has been a while.

Time.
Yesterday.
Tomorrow.
Ah. What shall we yet become?
So many things can happen in a single year.
Not to mention ten.
One hundred.
Millennia.

Why I've spent more than half my life waiting for you.
But perhaps it will be a long one and I shall outdo you yet.

I could tell you short stories, sell you a novella, write you a library.
Were it necessary.
Instead my lemon smells me away.
Light in cold water.
Enough to guide me through this.

Words roll around endlessly.
Anticipating their crowning which they most certainly deserve.
But which, unfortunately, I can not quite afford to give them.

And yes, I would relieve your suffering.
If only you would for it be the better.
But no, you insist. It can not be.
And right you are, for undoubtedly eternal.
Your patience must herein be tried.

We speak again.
Whispers so soft that no lip can hear them.
Not that they would have made themselves heard were they given the possibility.
For heard enough they are already.
Their silence carries them through the wind.

Awake and arise.
You have been chosen.
Called out of your eternal sleep.
A gift so great no man can speak of it.

Indeed.
It is there within you.
Such had I suspected from the beginning.

 empty soul   when i am an angel   Awake. Arise. The morning comes.   so we meet again   joyeux anniversaire   earthly flesh   angels descended silently   my arms await you openly   go wash thyself thrice   This morning darkness rose again   love   lest we be saved   at least   the tree of life   my love for you   This icy rain awakes me   And at last.   And they smiled down upon her