The triad of writer, lover and
the loved, she in the night of
raptors.
Gone the ability for thought,
the skin for touch, the heart
like unpainted bisque.
Her clammy hands, the drip
rivers ****** lacerations
born in the saunalike cataract
before, it seemed time
became the stranglehold
of Now.
Decades even later, years
uncover the silt of pain.
Together was not possible.
The rant began.
The cataract consumed her.
She unbreathed
goodbye.
Sphinx still
riddled.
She sat for me
clothed in sand
and waited
saecula saecularem
Amen,
Gentleman.
Last call.
Time gentleman.
Caroline Shank
Apr 10, 2023
Apr 10, 2023 at 2:19 AM UTC
The triad of writer, lover and
the loved, she in the night of
raptors.
Gone the ability for thought,
the skin for touch, the heart
like unpainted bisque.
Her clammy hands, the drip
rivers ****** lacerations
born in the saunalike cataract
before, it seemed time
became the stranglehold
of Now.
Decades even later, years
uncover the silt of pain.
Together was not possible.
The rant began.
The cataract consumed her.
She unbreathed
goodbye.
Sphinx still
riddled.
She sat for me
clothed in sand
and waited
saecula saecularem
Amen,
Gentleman.
Last call.
Time gentleman.
Caroline Shank
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