Face pale like the waning
embers of our last December
suddenly I feel how cold the winter
really was without your patient hand
ripe with hot, sanguine blood
warming my palm like a delicate egg
on the cusp of hatching into someone unafraid
of you or me or the dissapointed
last words of my mother that ate me up
like maggots on a carcass but
I’m not even dead.
I’ve barely been born
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 1:26 PM UTC
**I am the pride in Oberon’s Love-lorn
Crown and the bleeding in Hamlet’s voice.**
Its the taste of iron in my wounded
throat that reminds me: I am not
a cow, dog, flower or forest.
That my humanity
Who has to die a little
just to know itself
will one day choke me
until the blue in my face
resembles the blue around
Your veteran eye
Or the blue around the Albatross’ sky
moments before she died
in spite of those who loved her
Who shed tears like silver coins
buying a shard of happiness
to use as a nail that **could
Crucify our grieving souls**, but
corpses still cast shadows
even after you lick your thumb
to silence the sun like a wick.
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 1:21 PM UTC