To see only his eyes, black and narrow, without any shine, any reflection, from outside, nor within, you wouldn’t know if he were alive, or waxen. We were high on mescaline, and I watched Leo change from nothing, to something, a dark King, and then back to nothing, but colored blood-red this time. At least that was what I thought I’d seen. His brother was there with us as well, in the second floor square-building apartment, one of the invisible people, and I still can’t remember his face; I couldn’t remember it if I was staring right at it. His mother lived there too, some nights, but I’d never seen her, to forget. I thought on it later, stumbling home amid and between the owl-screech, puddle-ripple street-people. Someone had named him, ‘Leonard’. Someone had held him, daydreamed in yellow sunbeams of all the possibility he held, a whispered hope to escape the aching-gray suffocation of this place, and then someone– had forgotten their promise.

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6 thoughts on “promise”

  1. I’m sad to see you were high on drugs. You write so beautifully and your soul can be free if only you will allow it naturally, faithfully. Until then, nothing is real, just the banter of your soul crying out for the strength from which you were conceived.

      1. I guess that is why I can relate. I once was too and lived a very dark life. Loving the growth I’ve experienced over time. Maturity has its advantages. I’m enjoying your poetry!

        1. Thank you so much. I hope that it’s understood that all of this, regardless of the harshness or tenderness of the presentation is a wish that these souls be remembered, known, loved, even is only for a moment.

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