"palliated" poems
I loved you strong, with all the recklessness I possessed,
Yearned to share with you all I had to confess.
Believed it would be palliated in your pristine hands,
Watched it slip through your fingers like worthless sands.
Enamoured and imprudent, I jumped right in,
Unaware your depths were too shallow to swim.
Naïveté; my judgement had faltered,
All of my worth lay bare, and you resigned, unaltered.
Gave everything I knew with nothing left in reserve
Long forgotten it was me I should serve.
It was a hope laced channel for all the healing I desired
but you were inept at radiating the compassion required.
No understanding for this fragile task in proposition,
A rare gift to be cherished that you gave no recognition.
And there was too much exposed for you to forsake,
Too much that wasn’t earned; my calamitous mistake.
For these blood stained bones you lacked the tools to unearth,
You were never the answer to my rebirth.
Gravely inexperienced for this feat,
Your heart was too sheltered
and your mind too weak.
I gave you completely this intimate token,
But you failed to see how I was broken.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
Once I’d said to myself,
I was already gone too far,
so, resigned, I said: just keep an offering
of that music, (you know it, please)
that particular
pull, the natural
vertigoed clench, leaping of mountains
feeling, in your nervous system, can
travel at the speed of light when
you walk (do you see the motion
captured, the blinking lamps of
empty highways, your limitless
imperialectric nanoarchitexture? Please)
or when you remember walks when,
on days, flying, those months turned
each in distinct color, each of
particular scent (March
the showered fruit breeze of her hair,
August her skin drunk sweet in
coconut rays, November smoked from
a candle left after dinner, pressed black
fabric, a woven clathrate dress, the bed
before you kissed her face,
before you’d said too much.)
Then there is the kind thinning
of longing, the palliated sigh of being
gently put to sleep after time lived
inuring joys.
That clings to all past. That is
the sediment of time.
You will surely know a day music will fail,
will give you only half breath,
when you’ll need one whole.
And upon that time, I will no longer
pull you you will have to push yourself
free off a crumbling rock.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC