Frank Savage

Frank Savage / Writings

~1972

29 January 2016

Our Tangled Strings

 





The poet knows what he is writing, yet he might not know what he wrote.
Backing up time when it stood still, memories were vivid and real, slipped away into the shadows where they belong, words of a lost mind. 
A cause? A reason that slipped and got away? A lost translation?


Waltz number 19 ringing in my mind, ‘Apart’ a haunting cure as I turn the light off at night.
Tangled is our beautiful mess, we look at each other in the reflection of yesterdays actions.
Thin strings of unworldly colors, brittle threads holding all together, not breaking. 
I am leaving! Return not an option! Involuntarily unstuck!

This will be, missed. 
Will I ever be one again with you? Slowly undoing the yarn as distance and time seeps and dilutes what we had.
Knowing her steps in the city, curious mind seeking solution to unimaginable thoughts, the companion of her mind showing the way.
Racing towards an end, the start never presented itself in it’s own full glory.
I am my own enemy, realistic actions of a desperate dreamer walking a deep deathlike solitude, macho bravado echoes in flight or fall.
Without it nothing would be worth anything, at all.

                                                                                                 So I kissed her right then right there






Teasing out the tangles.
Every knots are like "the present" bound by the yesterdays.
Those inconsistent details are so much like strict and honest daily
reports...of the moments, transition of the emotions..” - She wrote…



  Y.I twentyninthofjanuary






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