A personal hymn (just a poem)

Clouds.

If I could I would touch that forehead, the person within, beset with gloom, this spring, as if it were a golden mask, as if behind, she smiled like a Pharaoh,  like my Queen.

But I put on my myrrh, pain and purification, my fake coco mademoiselle, legs in ripped tracksuit, put bins out with snake Tracy’s spitting poison out, fence no battlement against surveillance.

Just suburban, plain and simple, early meal, and all thought all day long goes up, drunk with love, I never tell anyone she’s the sky-god.

But I like to fantasise I’m waiting for my queen, like the canticles, like she were queen Solomon, riding her faerie chariot to my door, train of clouds following, and I can say I’m hers and she’s mine, but I can’t any longer, find my goddess, lightning in the storm, she’s not knocking at my door to-

Night without ending