I never said good-bye
the bye was never good
too shallow
to fare thee well
the absence hurt
tears were out of place
dying pain
had to be dry, helpless
my adieu delayed so long
makes me aware of fair
and by
and once again
I put by
the good-bye
for today . . .
..................................
They called it Land of Ginger, terrain retained for drunks and angels, the place where drifters covet death but find that living, suddenly isn't so frightening, and think they might go on . . .
but only think.
And she thought that she might surface there, steal the dreaming from her mind and make a poem of too many days and nights spent wanting
oblivion, or a love that would not stop.
And prayed that vampires loitered there ~ then realised that this was all so very foolish of her.
Was it only ever for her finding peace?
Some kind of impossible release from a life turned strangely wrong,
and always the reproach that she had made it so.
The constant terror of not knowing
what to do or who to be.
But in the midst of all of this . . . or maybe it was after, someone said "The Land of Ginger..."
And someone else said "Ghosts will breathe" in this last haven where guilt recedes.
And those who walk these streets, who bear a lasting need
to live or die, most will still remember there is someone they did not wish or want to leave behind.
And the night could never be so pretty,
and the cobblestones could never speak so clearly,
and somewhere inside the rhythm of surrendering
she came to know she was forgiven . . .
in the Land of Ginger.
