God, The Devil And My Friend Corine

Dear Corine,

The betraying fists of life,

All but engineered the ugly Machiavellian plot,

Of your beautiful demise,

In a knock down drag out waltz,

With the blood pooled dragon,

That snarling labyrinth,

To trip you up,

In barb wired coils

And fence you in,

With the alluring mists of illusion.

This boxing war,

This apathy sword,

Hubris knifing your daisy chained heart,

As it turned the deepest

Shade of doom,

And glided clandestinely,

With wicked stealth,

Into the cruel torpid winter

Of your womb,

To slay the child,

Of hope,

Tragically,

Too soon.

And how shunted were

Your heels of peace,

Under the kicks

Of spit shined boots,

To baby teeth,

To hemmed in gloom,

As sorrow’s kiss,

Hung like rodent perfume,

Where angels float,

Above mothball hospital rooms.

Dear Corine,

Life gave you a waxy ersatz crown,

That you wore with humble airs,

Your pitiable tiara,

A demure halo,

Naked of shimmery luster,

Lost in the sui generis

Of paraded kings and queens,

Outside the sacred circle,

Outside your simple means.

And the rubbery bouquet

Of plastic flowers

Taut in your leper fist,

Were charmless charms,

Masquerading as gifts.

The musty rummaged massacre,

Piled miles sky high

Into a funeral pyre,

Of your once charmed life,

Now charred,

Now gone,

To where used up things

Must go to die.

The mulish locks

And steely keys,

Imprisoned you,

Mercilessly.

Yet the faint winking spark,

Behind your bandaged heart,

Scared the demons away,

If just for a day.

So began your thundering exodus,

Through the devil’s torturing cave,

And you dug a million miles deep,

To that hushed and hallowed space,

Between death and breath,

And the in between.

And you staggered towards the bolted door,

Ignoring hell’s talking wind up toys,

That tried to tell you what to think,

And tried to tell you who you are,

Bidding you stay,

To be broken and void,

Roped by serpentine lies

From the devil’s honied voice,

That haunted your heart,

Behind the trapdoor attic,

Of your black and blue mind.

I know I know and know you know,

That life is sublimely rich

With a wrecked sense of wry humour,

Layered with devilish irony,

And black comedy,

With an audience of blinkless apathy,

And canned applause,

That can talon scratch

Scaly paint

Off dry walls.

But dear Corine,

You never pulled a Judas,

But played on as Job,

Even when the needling static

Of life’s TV,

Brought your bowed husk of a soul,

Down to its weathered knees.

And the God who watched

Your tumbled dominoe dreams

Land deep at the pale

Grave of your feet,

Came dressed as a boat

Skimming boiled mercury seas,

Through prune dried prayers

And wrath’s planted seeds,

In the silent violence of dark,

Until it reached the harbouring pleas,

Of your wide eyed screams,

Then God pulled you up,

Plucking out briars of grief,

That had gored through your heart,

And had caged up your dreams.

And God held you close,

To kiss your tears,

Into the grey,

Until the last of them,

Just fell away.

For you are more

Then just a name;

I think you a trophy of grace,

In a rugged cross frame,

And you’re my dearest friend,

Altogether,

Just the same.

So thank you my friend,

My dearest Corine,

And soldier on with,

Your lemons to lemonade,

As the once thrashing tide turns,

In this weary crucible

Of faith,

For God Himself,

Has shared your pain,

And holds still the beasts,

Of those once ravenous days,

Forever resolute,

Amen,

At bay.