The armory of my misery is hidden with layers of ancient pain, locked up like the rusty axes of a happier age. Once they gleamed with lucky joy and cut their ways through crowds of gleeful opportunities; with words – naive but words all the same – happy folk came running to see the hero with his heroin and wish them well upon the wave that carried both; willingly would they have their last night, trusting in a tomorrow that always turned up with kingly regularity, giving each and all each and all expressions of candid, azur infinity.
But I sit pious now, remembering those days not laughing yet remembering still the breaking of the blade and the decaying of our youth; hearing still the screaming of those lambs stopping not their bleating while we bleeding to our last, feeding time with sins long gone, sat in the rose garden remembering. Lying. Crying. Dying.
I cannot come again to those fields we knew so well. I cannot open up again the chest that holds the secret memories of my youth, yours, hers, ours – the collectivity of universal remembering, hidden in a poem, an ode to someone well remembered. The armory of my heart is kept away with metal inspectors, queues, delays and layers upon layers of heavy, dense remembering. It is the very recess that none but He can see.
Accept these words – naive but words all the same – and may they wet your tomb with fraternal reckoning.
Now, forever, brother, hail and farewell!