Arm trembling no longer holding up.
Feverish commotion moved unsatedly. Longing already before their departure from the knowledge of it to come.
Anguish in sorrow of sobbing
Two hearts’ Life has been made, disgustingly ripped away
and then at all costs retrieved
through the cold,
and flame of ashes.
A chain memory
gaining its voice,
shaping into separate mind
I’m in torenness.
‘ve been through a lifetime and act,
never allowed to come back again
to the same (whirl of trepidations
I tamed yet another fox
and have to deal with the tears
of the ends.
Tear away someone else’s presence
and so shall be no difference.
I’m in hurt as in loss.
Losing a precious to me
will feel even greater
or have I just lost one,
with a piece of myself
The binding isn’t locking away
one’s memory for a story,
it is giving them a person
and stealing their porcelain pieces
with its charm and frazzleness.
That’s why I account Literature
of my astrality
and perfect chosen arts of being.
Their non-verbal is
my most cherished music there is
as in Phronemophilia
a form of incalescence and confession made between a pair of words,
plucking the perfect chord
and Heart’s painfully sweet thrillance
and, between the verses,
speaking the ideal maternal language
not yet known to Mind.
As a Book contains all millions
of little aspects of moments,
as it throws a wave after wave
of alchemy of emotions,
of all the unnameable things
it is a Person.
One of many supposedly
not ones in Me.
Sorry, plushie dearies,
it will be the faux-Victorian tale
of volumes and affection
tucked close to my chest
you rest next,
всё кто живет во мне и не.
Thank you, Bridget Collins, for your book “The Binding”.
You master binder bound me away too.
Couldn’t look at any other book the other day.
Congratulations dearly for tearing out my heart so well.