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you want it darker, we kill the flame - Leonard cohen

"I'm ready my lord"


he knew.

I'm convinced he knew.

this was his last album (well, his son is releasing another one posthumously). It has all the usual suspects - the metaphors, the conversations with god, the dealer, the healer, the negotiation for truth. and dignity. for the meaning of absolution, and, for beauty.

he knew.


"there' a crack in everything... that's how the light gets in"


what can I say about Cohen? I wanted to meet this man. this poet. lover. earnest pilgrim. this man whose prophecy and restless abandon taught a generation to love and to forget. to believe.


Cohen's voice grew deeper with every song, every album. as the years took his soul, his passion caught fire, and his words acquired a burnt orange tint. a silhouette of prophecy. a warning, of what we are seeing - what is to come-


he knew.


"you want it darker, we killed the flame"


a couple of weeks before leonard cohen took his silence and placed it before his master, his lord- an offering; a life lived in the quiet fervour of those who have seen miracles, without authors. those who have seen god in the silence. the quiet, pregnant calm before the storm of creation.

a couple of weeks before he passed, I'd written him a tribute.

the poem stayed in an envelope waiting to be posted...everything I have to say Cohen is in this poem. bear with me...


For Cohen


melancholy is a colour. it sings through

the cracks opening in the river of your broken baritone. like light high on dreams


the cliffs are empty, the sea froths like an angry dog, the window is open, and the lipstick-smeared glass looks out, under the beret that I left there instead of the poem because words can never know that perfume you wore


they’ve all gone the women who loved and knew love to sink like a stone beneath their souls.


gravel-breath. dark vate. refugee who was stopped at checkpost of truth, so that he could linger a bit longer.

chiaroscuro melody rising to the surface of technicolour jesuses wrapped in neon teeth that explode like the distance between a sigh and a sleepy kiss


the old man sits in the lamplight and falls slowly backward into the scene, his wild, cracked grin a letter delivered to solitude

take me back. remind me how the song goes.

let me sing.

...







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