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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476527" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Come To Me In Rags Of Blue Fire</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come to me in rags of blue fire, you, muse, you, <br>	the gardenia face on the other side of the black gate<br>		whose ancient spears are tipped with the taste <br>of wounded moons and iron roses; do not be swayed <br>	by the blossoms on the cherry bridge, <br>		or why the shadows of the brick children <br>on the walls of atomic decisions <br>	haven’t been signed by the artists; give up <br>		 your fixation for amateur comet-watching in the rain<br>and come to me, touch me, hold me, consume me <br>	in the flames of your igneous dispositions, <br>		pierce me with stars, tear me on the thorns of your light, <br>as you have loved me in revery, distress, and tears, <br>	as you have loved me in horror and humiliation <br>		and then yourself lain down with me <br>in the mass graves of the student guitars<br>	that were raped and murdered in the limelights <br>		of the show-bizz army trucks, <br>antidotes weeping all night from the crescent of your kinder fang<br>	to keep my heart alive like a toad in winter, <br>		bring me now the night fire of your tigers <br>and the fragrance of wild sapphires blooming on the wind <br>	when you return like an atmosphere to find me<br>		as only you know how to find me<br>listening to my scars eat through the silence of dry creekbeds <br>	revising the flash floods of their nervous breakdowns <br>		with the short hands and amputated fingers of cactus alphabets.<br>Shall I call you dark names, and season my calling<br>	with black swans and histrionic willows; <br>		shall I summon you by silvering the Russian olive, <br>or bleeding the cherry to paint a man without lips, <br>	or will you make me labour for nothing <br>		in the sweatshops of the underpaid cocoons<br>when my tongue’s already as thick as a shoulder-pad? <br>	Come, just come, come with wings, come with fireflies <br>		and trust I’ve always preferred you to suicide, <br>come with bells and starfish calendars, come with candles and cedar <br>	and tears in the mirror that don’t belong to anyone <br>		and remember what I’ve died for when you asked, <br>come with fish and peacocks and orchids, <br>	with squandered lakes bruised by the moon, <br>		with black roses shedding their crows like witches, <br>come to me like an emerald that needs healing, <br>	come with fingertips, breasts, eyes, a windfall of soggy peaches, <br>		and believe in the poor goat whose piety’s a broken horn, <br>lift him up like rain above the sphinx in a desert ripe with diamonds, <br>	and let him know, softly remind him, caress and confine him <br>		like a cemetery covered in a keyboard of snow<br>until he confesses there’s an asylum in the heart of chaos <br>	that sings to itself like an emergency constellation, <br>		more enthralling than all the rest, a black waterstar <br>you are compelled to turn the lights off everywhere to be.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476527" data-title="Come To Me In Rags Of Blue Fire de Patrick White" data-description="Come to me in rags of blue fire, you, muse, you, 
	the gardenia face on the other side of the black gate
		whose ancient spears are tipped with the taste 
of wounded moons and iron roses; do not be swayed 
	by the blossoms on the cherry bridge, 
	..."></div>
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