let me be your offering.
a bumble bee
does not deny
taking great care of
that provide her with
do not hide their
will always run
from a mountain and
into the loving arms
of a valley
to the ground
just to be close to
It drips from my eyes and spills into the fire;
I stare past it to the world that was once breathing,
to the people who greeted it in the morning
My bare foot slides in the dirt, drawing a circle, then stops
The other mimics it
I hold my hands out before me, they bare the offering
The ink begins to stain my skin
It's poring out.
My fingers are melting, and they release it
into the flame
I want to see you.
And I feel like I’m putting you first in everything. Giving everything I can round up, to give you a measly offering in the form of what I can find of the shattered pieces of my heart.
Somehow you are the kind of person I will drop everything and drive an hour in a snowstorm at just the chance to do nothing with you. But only if you want me to.
Will you - your sun's inferno burning bright,
Your radiance demanding all the sky -
Reach down a blessed fingertip, tonight?
Will hands know how to meet as you and I
Lock eyes and blind each other with our light?
Let darkness fall. Burn me, your firefly.
The gods will have the sacraments they claim.
These words, an offering, burn just the same.
And will you turn your moonlit face from me?
Will midnight mystery reclaim your smile,
As silver starlight fades to reverie
Until the sky hangs empty, mile for mile?
If I must spend my sight, myself, to see,
At least we burn with your exclusive style.
What shades of you remain are paradise -
A shame I won't bear witness to you twice.
As prompted by a fellow poet.
Sometimes, it looks like lenience.
Small passes for big faux pas.
Many believe that it's absolution
Locking themselves in boxes periodically
To cry out, bleeding painful catharsis.
Some sneak it in with charity
Use compassion as a puppet in their mercy show
Throw underhanded in the name of grace.
Some offer it when they're bruised and broken
Spit out blood, then turn the other cheek.
Others give it away with full bellies and warm hands
Either out of purity
Or some nefarious need, pushed down deep.
And I wonder and wander all the while
For I am the fool
Who begs to receive
But can not give.
A prompt from my 'Write This Poem' book. Any guesses what 'it' is?
A shot of whiskey and some wine
A life in beautiful decline
I try to run, I try to hide
Intoxicated all the time
I'll build a bridge to watch it burn
Pour the ashes in the urn
And turn away just to start again