April 6th. Take a line from a favourite book, use it as the title, write a poem around the title then rename it.
Even in the most deranged of his imagined states, love was the most unexpected interloper.
It walked into his ward, his mind, his personal and personally designed theatre of war – unnoticed.
Balanced precariously on his bed, angled as if to ignore, to tempt, to tease him,
It was irresistible and instantly all consuming.
Was this love, or was it the love of love, the want of love?
He wanted for nothing, yet wanted so much, and in wanting so much – wanted nothing.
The call to arms was not craven, there was no hint of lust, no longing thirst to quell the dust, the rust, the wine must of his memories.
How could myopia have blindsided him in such a wanton, cruel, and delirious fashion?
Both injurious and innocent, sallow and sanguine, a cruciform bejewelled incubus in uniform.
In the countless catacombs of his minds there was space to catalogue a universe of emotion,
But not this one, this one was, was, he did not know. He had no label to attach but LOVE.
How could he recognise this never-once-met stranger so instantly?
He embraced it, but not him, like the prodigal elation he had never felt.
The foot steps of his reflections echoed back at him, like drifting ghosts of jazz in a closed ballroom.
Staring at the polished leather of his boots, he saw only his eyes, but he would not cry.
There would be no dancing tonight, the incongruous wallflower would sit this one out,
Until love came calling again, at visiting time.
I chose the opening lines from Joseph Heller’s, Catch 22 – well I would, I guess, or maybe I wouldn’t, it depends on what I’m allowed to do – or not.