I keep living
As though love
Comes with strings attatched
And try as I might
I cannot cut through
That lie.

Yes,
I cut deep enough
to feel alive
But never deep enough
To die

Trace blue rivers that run
through the caves
beneath soft
raw ground

tear sweet
rotten lines--
scars
in rich
brown

feel angry, hot magma
red
cascading
d
  o
    w
      n

The Earth will tremble
and
b  r  e  a  k
still
Do not hesitate
remember why

The ground is raw
from your own
hungry greed

it bears the sweet lines
of rotten honey
bees

and cleans the mess
of your angry
hot red

the tightness increases
i have to leave
wrist to elbow
i can’t breathe

the trees branch as they grow,
the wind cuts through the forest,
the sea breaks into itself eternally—
this is cleaving,
this is creation.  

cells split,
shadows stretch long and thin
over trimmed grass
as the light returns
to the other side.

and now the moon floats
in ghostly meditation,
hinting at what’s hidden
and how close
it all seems sometimes.

I was never far from myself,
except when I was,
and writing this doesn't
make any sense—
why should it?
who’s keeping score?

who’s the grand cosmic judge
of all artistic expression everywhere
across all
dimensions and time?

nobody.
that's who.
nobody cares.
that’s the point.

it doesn't matter what
I say on this page,
even if it's terrible,
even if it’s rotten,
even if no one reads it.
it felt right
to let it flow freely in the moment,
to spill it all out.
that’s what matters—
the spilling of it.

there’s a sweetness in that.
in the clean slice of the razor
and the blood it draws—
quiet,
quick
and true.

drip,
drip,
drip,

all over the page.

Marble is cold
like a lover, scorned.
Hard. Cutting.
It rejects heat.

Yet,
If you should touch
that frigid matter,
painstakingly, you can bring it to life;

make it look like there is blood
flooding through that stone.

We cut one another
Down to the very flesh
While we miss each other
Deep inside our bones

Isn’t that ironic?

The breaking,
of that, final branch.

That, unmistaken,
crunching, chance.

The twist,
that teased,
the gritted crush...

...of bitter unease.

Blood, like, sap, aching,
pouring out, unstanched.

The forgotten cut, forsaken...

...of rotten, felled circumstance.

Feels, as though, inhumane, is everlasting.

To heal and grow...

...after falling, from a baned tree, ungrasping...

...is the toughest ask in life's chase romance.

© poormansdreams