Words the counterpoint to our pain of existence;
Finely scattered fires, on the tips of arrows
Buried deeply beneath brooding flesh;
Blood seeking missiles, to destroy a lung or a heart.
If the syllables were aimed well enough,
And once my convulsing heart is all twisted and held
In the sinewed leather embrace of your quiver,
I'm busy reading my death in the end feathers.
Because a word is mispelled, and it takes my final breath:
I am impaled on your imperfection again;
That word is a secret message, that can fly swifter and straighter
To inform me, that you were thinking of something more
Than just dinner, and a hide to comfort old bones.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:33 PM UTC
Words the counterpoint to our pain of existence;
Finely scattered fires, on the tips of arrows
Buried deeply beneath brooding flesh;
Blood seeking missiles, to destroy a lung or a heart.
If the syllables were aimed well enough,
And once my convulsing heart is all twisted and held
In the sinewed leather embrace of your quiver,
I'm busy reading my death in the end feathers.
Because a word is mispelled, and it takes my final breath:
I am impaled on your imperfection again;
That word is a secret message, that can fly swifter and straighter
To inform me, that you were thinking of something more
Than just dinner, and a hide to comfort old bones.
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