By Anson Clark
I was waiting here to miss you.
The tattered Bible you gave me –
St. John, among others, staring back at me –
Stopped me from leaping into
The dark. Prevented me from
Dissolving into the nihilism of
Nothing. I so wanted to meet you
Again, to thank you, my angel of fate.
But fate is a tricky beast, and instead
Of me, you leapt into the dark; you
Dissolved into the nihilism of nothing.
But your life could never be nothing,
Even if you were momentarily unaware
Of this, for you gave me something,
This charred, cigarette-stained Bible,
And more. If only the something you gave
Me was recognised by you as something
That gave you meaning
Just before those final dark moments, so
You could have stepped back from the
Clanging edge. Death’s scythe fell
As summer stammered its baking hell,
The flamingos, flaming red, thrust their
Sweating heads into the cooling watery
Foam, to escape it all; as the jetsam rose,
Bobbing to the surface of the heart, an attempt
Of purification, of catharsis. You achieved
This for me, but not for yourself.
And so I stand here in the frosted chill,
Gnawed Bible in my hand, bookmark
Stained half way through the Psalms,
And I wait for you, always in pure hope.
Waiting here to miss you.
Anson Clark lives in the United Kingdom and is currently an online student at the Saint Irenaeus House of Orthodox Studies.