XII. TO HERA (5 lines)

(ll. 1-5) I sing of golden-throned Hera whom Rhea bare.  Queen of
the immortals is she, surpassing all in beauty: she is the sister
and the wife of loud-thundering Zeus, -- the glorious one whom
all the blessed throughout high Olympus reverence and honour even
as Zeus who delights in thunder.

The poems doesn't speak to you.
It sings, it whispers, it screams.

The poem isn't going anywhere.
It dances; glides or crawls.

The poem isn't written.
It is cried, bled or shivered onto

Paper. The poem doesn't care.
It's just there. Where it belongs.

It doesn't mind or like.
It loves, adores or despises from its

Soul. The poems isn't created.
It blesses the poet with its birth.

You're always saying how you want to understand me
But how can you when our conversations remain one sided-
My speech is broken by a silence that should be filled with your own
Yet I continue to speak to myself, never pausing to hear the sounds of silence
My words stringing into sentences, rolling off my tongue with such poetic rhythm
They cannot possibly make no sense, because they make perfect sense to me
I must be speaking in a foreign language- yes, that must be it
But surely in misunderstanding you would call a stop to my ranting
Instead I am met with a blank expression followed by suspicious looks

i don't understand
Yes,  you do.

Out beyond the edge of reason,
beyond where my senses can claim
I cannot sleep or wake…
nor dream.
In a state of
nondescript stillness. Bereft of
unnecessary memories.
I am not loved,
I do not love
in ways I can any longer
understand. Stark states of
stalemate.
Melpomene and Thalia
hunched over game pieces
a drunken heart
laments all a sober mind must
reason.
When liquid gold
and golden light
take to loving,
we as humans,
are no match. Either of
these elixirs in their limpidness,
bronzes our throats and
smothers our breath,
consumes our vision
with that last still drift of
sulphur, struck…
My flickering writhe
is a lambent match flame
Leaning in
to kiss a wild bonfire.