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The Past

by Frank Golden

J J’s is a recondite and flowerless past
Memoried in fragments of glass.
Holograms of Angels tower over him
Their yellow tongues hoisted on flagpoles
Their fierce deceits descending his spirit.
He does not love the rituals of harmony
He can not love his eyes
They are others’ eyes in other realities.
There are others’ eyes where there is darkness
And he can not remember the stillness in love
And is riven still by loss.
It is there
In the isolation of his eyes
In the temperature of his dread
In the incomprehension of his rage
In the absence of flowers
By the abuse of love
In the ancient distrust of his heart.


Taken from ‘Footprints on the Limestone’ (1993), page 38.


Frank Golden