Its trash

A spider under the doorknob,
Resting peacefully, yet carefully aware.
But even its senses can't prevent the
pressure and shock crushing it gently,
quickly. A rapid fall and another shriek,
beneath the shadow he goes, just like the ones
underneath
our feet.

I once ate the grapes of a pretty good person
They were sweet, juicy and had little seeds
They lodged themselves in my heart
Where they became the memories I held dear

But somewhere along the way, The grapes
turned sour and meager and each bite had a
tinge of regret, I'd spit out the seeds
Only once in a fit of rage, I'd swallowed one

And it grew, and it grew, and the vines
would coil around my heart, my lungs,
piercing both and growing, feasting,
To replace my life with that of your memory

My liver was drunk on the fermentation of
my sealed lungs, my crushed heart,
my martyred self, who spread bare across your roots
It tastes a bit like your moldy basement.

Doused in jasmine,
The harvest danced under warmth;
I have cured my soul.

Everything once said,
Turns then into acid.

Spoiling the tongue,
And decaying the jaw.
The mandible drops,
And the poison leaks.

My chest is no longer

what it once was.

A season’s work has come to fruition,
The bodied beauty in ivory stone
Stands tall with joy, in greek exultation,
To be seen under light, splendidly alone.

He poised triumphantly, that Adonis.
But under the shimmer of your light
Is revealed a mark; the shape of a kiss
On his lips, an embrace from late last night.

The artist in shock, his art was unmade.
This indulgent kiss, on his sensuous
Lips, became a love that would never fade
And no one but him found this treacherous.

The gaze of the boars that composed the art
Gored the artist & sundered him apart.

My beloved poet, where is your heart today?
Does she still keep your heart in those skies high above?
As she feasted with no man rejoicing, you lay.
Most days I pray to imbibe your letters with love.

Tell me, did you cry as she swallowed your heart?
Was it the resentment or the fear in her face,
As she held you frail, still and chained in your art?
She displayed you bare, as she bit down to your base.

This hagiography had already been writ,
As you arose in parts by no grace of your own.
How did you dream & how did you sleep? Still, to wit,
In your spirit held its decay, once your words sown.

My beloved poet, who did you love the more?
Sights of your heart, or a new vision of grace fore?