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‘Making a heart’ and other poems by Fabrice B. Poussin

By: Fabrice B. Poussin

Making a heart

Screaming in utter silence he stands on the icy peak
snowy blankets float over the unknown vales
obstacle to a life which has now and long forgotten
the days hope could still be drawn in diamond rock.

He dreams of claws to cut through the desperation
pleading for an answer upon the noble entrails
falling to his knees once again, hugging the cliffs
as he slides to the pit of the impossible destiny.

The ground once of solid marble turned to mud
a soupy mixture of blood, and mortal nightmares
his bare chest chilled by the encounter with fate
as he gazes up to the grace he may never receive.

If only he could let his whole being burst again
into the infinite particles he was so recently yet
if only the sublime message could reach and touch
the tight fibers as a sigh emerges from beneath.


Never too late

It will never be too late to kick the can
Perhaps Left in the last glimmer of hope
For the old man on his shiny wheels.

It is not too late gentle matriarch to jump rope
As you gaze through the shady glass
Upon a jungle you once so nurtured.

There is still time to look into the mirror
To speak with that soul you know so well
Before you surrender to eternal dreams.

You know you can again sing that tune
With your broken voice into the mist
For that breast continues to murmur a life.

Smile o my father my friend my everyone
Your teeth shine with the kindness of ages
Broken by the struggles of so many days.

Love as if you courted with your teens
Suffer the hurt of another oblivious heart
And cry with the joy of loving for the first time

It is not too late to become you in the dawn
You may leave us in the cold of another morrow
But you may still wear that girly dress.

Brave the hours with your last breaths
Run take flight against the broken bones
You can yet my kind kin be a child.



I walk down the narrow path
overgrown with weed since you last came
shards of glass shine in your favorite earth.

It is a jungle in green pastures
that was never a threat to your courage
broken limbs, bird picked berries alike.

Your eyes, such faithful mirrors
glittered with the reds, greens, colors of life
the warmth of your desires.

I stand there for but an instant
a breeze swirls by carrying your essence
never alone in this ocean of your dreams.


To the makers of worlds

Creatures doubtless run down the shelves,
as a subtle cloud of days comes alive with past
lives of histories without beginning nor end.

Barely audible yet the footsteps are many,
like those of elves conscious of their duties.

Light changes in a flash, with the quick motions of
undefinable bodies in a thick semi-darkness.

Like snowflakes, particles descend to their deaths;
memories numerous as the names carved on spines,
cracked of leather and gold, guarding treasures many.

All things have stopped in all counties, safe for this chamber
where an untimely clock paces back to irreverent
eras, and tales of wars and love may again commence.

Far from here, not a soul this night will witness in shame,
the wonder revealed by the mystical dialogue of those
who never rest in the fate of all they once knew.

The oblivious night surrounds their world of
eternal light. Others yet, know only a living death.

The creatures will prolong their languorous waltz,
waiting to be joined soon, yet of those who still condemn them.

Finding shelter within the leafy shells of oceanic dreams,
from time to time they too will gain from overdue slumber,
characters of history, actors on a page, makers of cities.


Touching the Ghost

Trembling digits tend to an invisible form
Memories of a vision beyond a darkest wall
A dream as true as the life he seeks.

Frightened for perhaps it is but a ghost
The temporary apparition of a glowing mist
Still as if too attempting to become flesh.

To touch a star born with the first lights
His body shivers under the warmth of early dawns
One more step into the unknown and it will be done.

It may be a ghost all that still remains
For him to join and gently vanish
Touching the light essence of his passion.

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