Dear Chicago

A work in progress....

She percieved the tormented soul,
So he slowed, listening to wintry silence.
He needed the way she made it so simple
for him to question, yet possess no answer.

In passions for dark, afflicted avenues,
and the horrible aesthetic, grew a tangled beauty
found only in the morbid sensation of truth.
a reality that comes only in nakedness.

They loved, one the other,
as only the broken may love the broken.

She loved him the most
when her promises awoke (in him)
in the darkened heart of the city.
She entered through the wounded place
where he had parted his heart
from careworn, weary memory.

Life's less simple since; his
reason drifted on tepid tides.
And longings for silent winters
to still the vernal, rushing flow,
came to him in the candescent confides
of the austral spaces that held him.

Southern roads, you're almost gone
I think I've fallen out of love, with home.

Rick Smith, October 2008