The first spring
There’s this barrier,
Either of contempt or pride.
Further exchange of words,
Watching you pantomime,
Reading your mind,
Engulfing the spaces we worked.
You were on the other side;
A simpleton with a great mind.
Barrier: Glass-like but steel.
The other side was me,
A vessel of conceit and pretense.
The distance made by the war
Of tugging and pulling drew me out.
It made sense:
I never got to you.
Instead, encased in fragility and adamancy,
I was caught in between.
Breathless and shamed,
A fool who believed.
Second spring came,
Still encased in dense air.
I remained satisfied,
You’ve crossed the other, other side.
Not to me or where I was,
But to the intensest place.
Watching you, I stopped struggling.
A leaden body replaced Houdini,
who never truly escaped.
I faced my death as the glass crossed and cut,
Tearing me whole.
Unshattered but assailed
with withering condemnation.
Regret, it may be it
To never dared knowing,
trying, and believing.
Self-abjection is all there is.
Deep anguish and boiled eyes,
Unused lungs and cased gasps,
Churned stomachs and a sliced mind;
A night of wilting and rue,
A kiss of damnation and a touch of breath,
Caresses of Judas’ darkest blue,
Impassioned foreplay to one’s lovely death,
Copulation in hell with Valentine,
It is bliss to know that such is a dream
Of life, of love, of hope, of memories in galleon’s dusts
The end to **** with the whimper of lust.
