i'll never get back what i gave
to 3am

on the last day of september
my bones
aching in my skin
i can't help but feel
that i have lost
much more than i gave

i'm no poet, no artist
maybe that's why i can see
we're a lot more beautiful
when you're just you, and i'm just me

The Walls of Jericho came down tumbling,
they fell onto the ground,
they heaped up dust and rubble
all happened with a sound.
Standing, wrecked, solitaryobserving
as the ruins lay bare forlorn,
I felt my heart like old ways
irretrievably torn,
A new foundation is needed,
pile carefully brick on brick,
building firm on this foundation
because the old walls made me sick.

What if the character of Snow White was as black as ebony ?

What if the heart of Snow White was as cold as snow ?

What if the nature of Snow White was red in tooth and claw ?

With her hair as black as ebony , lips as red as rose and skin as white as snow , would Snow White still be then called as
beautiful as the light of the day and fairest of all ?

And suddenly my entire
truth unraveled.
Every memory that
invaded my subconscious
had taken over.
And my life appeared
as a sad novel.
I'm sinking.

I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots.
I see them already -- the pale, star-distance faces.
Now they are nothing, they are not even babies.
I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods.
They will wonder if I was important.
I should sugar and preserve my days like fruit!
My mirror is clouding over --
A few more breaths, and it will reflect nothing at all.
The flowers and the faces whiten to a sheet.

I do not trust the spirit. It escapes like steam
In dreams, through mouth-hole or eye-hole. I can't stop it.
One day it won't come back. Things aren't like that.
They stay, their little particular lusters
Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.
When the soles of my feet grow cold,
The blue eye of my tortoise will comfort me.
Let me have my copper cooking pots, let my rouge pots
Bloom about me like night flowers, with a good smell.
They will roll me up in bandages, they will store my heart
Under my feet in a neat parcel.
I shall hardly know myself. It will be dark,
And the shine of these small things sweeter than the face of Ishtar.