by Richard Vince

There will be an angel
Waiting to greet me in every
City I have romanticised
Into a heady cocktail of
Culture and architecture
From the base metal of a place
Where people live and work.

When my feet finally land
On that hallowed ground,
She will be no more than
A pane of glass away,
Hidden only by my
Weary reflection.

And I will love her as
A metaphor, as a symbol
Rather than as a human,
As a work of art rather than
A living thing.

She will be a postmodern
Juxtaposition, and I will be
An intervention sent to
Make someone look clever.

When I return home, she will
Metamorphose into a song that
Moves while meaning nothing.

And I will miss not the real her but
Someone I imagined with her face.

And I will never know her name.


Posted on 03/16/2022
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

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