Stranded on the fringe of Time,
my wrists throb with the pulse that binds them.
Outside these walls are dark vines,
ivy armed with years and years,
grown to sharp points that wind themselves up my body
to pierce my pin curls
and lie across my forehead.
They absorb the heartbeat from my temples
and use it against me
to hold me here,
bound architecture,
cross and unkind,
a phantom line in an oblivious mind.
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 4:30 PM UTC
Stranded on the fringe of Time,
my wrists throb with the pulse that binds them.
Outside these walls are dark vines,
ivy armed with years and years,
grown to sharp points that wind themselves up my body
to pierce my pin curls
and lie across my forehead.
They absorb the heartbeat from my temples
and use it against me
to hold me here,
bound architecture,
cross and unkind,
a phantom line in an oblivious mind.
Request permission to use this poem