Ecce Homo

There is always this;
You will never know
of the midnights spent
listening to the ravaging wind
or the empty myths
of rain at dawn.

You may suspect
the unwoven fantasies,
the heartfelt cliches
of drinking red wine
and smoking Galousies,
as cold and vulnerable
as James Dean
in the broken alleyways
of a Glasgow night.

And you will never know
the stranger who still appears,
speaking like a covenant,
who wept his desperation
to the darkness
of your name.

This is left to me;
you will never forget
the ragged flowers,
the dead.