His Beauty My Secret
And when I brought his face to life, manifest idea of heaven into his eyes, it was of my own personal Jesus. It was in his beauty within which I toiled, made his face smooth as worked marble, touched his lip with tip of finger then left him for time to abuse. In court yard of soiled faith etched from empirical pagan ritual, I’d watch his sun warmed lips call beyond olive gardens to where, in red wine reverie, I rested; and I’d dream of buildings where I could tell the story of my secret faith, retell it within his simple hands. Gardens where I’d whisper secrets into empty nights and where he keeps them still, no loose tongue let slip for deceptive judges’ to cast scorn. In place of purest sanctuary I brought him to life. With a lick of gilded brush his holy cheek flushed pink as if affected by heavenly hand that blew life into his heart. Now he overlooks their days as he does mine, but they shall not know his name, his real name, is not wrought from scripture, but wrung dry from a thirsty shame that casts shadow on my days. Paul Crompton Paul Crompton is a poet and journalist on the south Coast. He performs at Brighton's many open mic nights and produces a quarterly chapbook of the town's poets
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June 2025
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