Picasso's Incandescent Angel, poetry

The Meeting

Heart in Battle Dress,
face scared from previous hunts
and tangles with Love’s imminent fangs.
I lurk on a stool in an alcohol Jungle,
armed for skirmish.
Bow taunt,
arrow in hand straight and sharp.
I glanced about,
all around
circles stain the bar from my drink.

If at that point, you’d asked me
w/ face smeared black for battle,
-Had my spirit defected?

I would’ve answered, -Yea;
albeit, I saw it that night.
It was an electrical moment.
which shook me,
jolting me back
up against the polyurethane wood of the bar.
I saw Picasso’s Incandescent Angel;
she came over and spoke to me.
The light was blinding.
Her blazing blue eyes caused seeds to sprout.
Leaves unfold, catching the radiating light.

With her hand on mine,
the Incandescent Angel’s words,
delicate in their arrival,
wrap around me slowly tightening.
The arrow, sliding from my fingers,
splintered upon the floor.
I place my bow in the trash can
with the plastic cups and beer bottles,
as we walked up the sidewalk
to get something to eat.
I chose to be myself
following the way of the spirit,
the way of the hunter was too painful.

Angel, I come with no presents,
only the wind at my back.
I can only give you words
threaded together in a necklace called poem
and leave with the hope,
that you, too,
desire to continue our conversation on another day.

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