There are fireflies in the garden during the dawn
and the moon, till the day, stays
hung over shuttered windows like some
homeless
hopeless looking for love.
You turned my world onto its head
and brought me down in chains; now
bubbling the last of me in some
Chinese torture chamber of love
in a dark room of your mother's house
full of the horrors of your childhood
and your children.
You scar this skin like I can go out
wearing every verse that escaped your tongue
like a trophy fallen to dust:
gone sheen, glory and all.
Rivers are finally flowing backward
and I swear I saw pigs fly
in a sky as pink as the lips of you on your glass of venom.
Galleries of art are slipping into the street
because masterpieces were absolutely
nothing when it came to the abstracts
of brilliance and dark you could create
by the harrows of your mind.
I was no story teller and
I could never put you to sleep.
So you slip away from my bed, mind, heart and hand.
And it tastes like a broken marriage
too hot on the tongue
and too far gone to believe
it could become unmended.
Rain sometimes falls in numbers
one here, twice there.
On me
**all at once, all the time.
Hello Poetry and I, and our sudden breaking apart, and the sudden realization I now write like someone who I thought I could never become.