I Am The Blast From Your Past - Poem by Morney Wilson
I will be there, dear,
when your clock strikes thirteen
and I will smile at you.
If you look into the
looking glass do not be surprised
if the world spins out of control.
Do not, I tell you, do not drop
from a great height of fear
into a waking coma when the
sky becomes the ground -
when the ground turns blue
and black storming clouds are
your stepping stones.
I lay on a mattress of unreasonable love
there were three of us in that bed -
you should have said right then -
you could have told me before I
dropped all my stitches before I
spilt all the milk: that you blamed me.
I will be here, darling,
when it gets dark at noon
when the cow flip flops gracefully
over that moon she thought was hers.
I will be right by your side, sweet,
when there are icicles in hell -
there will be a big one with a razor edge
that could kill. You must take care.
There I was, lowered into forever -
the lover of your unreason.
It was the same, later in the season
perhaps, but we know and she knows
don't we. It was the same dropp through that floor.
You arrive slightly too late, all bewilderment.
You leave, than make your excuses.
When the devil has no more work for idle hands,
when too many cooks make for an exquisite broth,
when the number of the beast is 667,
when you roll a stone and it comes back covered in moss.
Know then it is coming.
The I change.
I turn up like a good penny.
You will not save me for a rainy day.
Absence has made my heart grow colder.
Wait for the clock to strike thirteen.
It will happen when you least expect it.
I will be there, dear, and I will smile.
I will smile and I will smile and I will smile.
And then you will know.
© Morney Wilson
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