Anathema 10/18/07

She stands there, dark hair glistening in the stark moonlight...and she's beautiful. She is always beautiful. She is real and honest in a world that grates against her like sandpaper and labels her an outcast. She is real and honest in the face of hypocrisy and powdered noses. She is Ana, with bobbed hair and a quirky smile that plays across her gentle face and tells me that in the face of everything that is false and ephemeral she will always be my everlasting Halley's Comet...my never-ending sunshine, northern star, ever-bold Anabelle, Ana, in the face of the world, my Anathema.

sun-kissed shadows

dance
in the fading
haze
of a moon-lit night.
she
is only so bold as the
sandals
on her feet.

however,
when she
calls
my name i am
compelled
to gravitate towards her.

she is my
blazing
oblivion, in an
endless
expanse of infinity
leading
to a land i'd rather
not
call familiar.

sunshine

in my window at
three
(ante-meridiem); i never know if she'll
stay
or wander hopelessly on to some
other
stranger's bedside;
i never know if she'll find
solace
in the dark shadows of some
foreigner's
room, safer from these
city lights
beside a
country belle,
guarded from this
concrete
cage by a force
greater
than my own--none-
the less
she always
always
returns,
at three a.m.,
to pay me
homage,
perhaps:
ma chercheuse éternelle
de la face cachée
de la lune.