The Breath And Flame Revisited Poem by Wayne Falconer

Heard myself ring out pretentious line.
Arrived from some dream was all mine.
Something to do with art breath and flame.
I listened close wondered was it word game.

A novel in my poem I recently heard.
Well listen you might play upon or find word.
Surreal or abstract friend lectured me so.
Well I don't know I'm going with the flow.

They say all masked torments are taught.
Within the literary flower bed court.
Where mythological beast sins are slayed.
Upon stage where Victor Hugo's hunchback played.

Casting histories forlorn veiled spell.
Where the austere angels hidden mask fell.
Echoing with lovers blind games to tell.
Fashioned from where hope and torment dwell.

Where the sideshow dark clowns are sent.
And all our noble fiery passions are bent.
While the brandy poets bottle will torment.
Where all such preying novels are vent.

Beneath the breying circus tent laughter moon.
Within the lovers long white smoking room.
Where wicked saints drink wine in the rain.
Harbouring holy love and damnations pain.

Still in the end who shall wed the blame.
When all mans conscience cries in vain.
Where histories seen to cast shallow fed lies.
Beneath bleak conscience temple blank skies.

Well did I fall lost in french dark dreams.
Impressionist kind sure you know what I mean.
Perhaps like love vice I LIVE to spin the dice.
Writing poems I'm lost in some novel fools paradise.