It is the way the world moves, without a prayer or purpose. It is the way the world seethes, the crawling and reaching of ten trillion appetites. I shift my sights, I hold your gaze. I think I see just what you say. You move near, you move away. You speak in tempered truths. My heart hangs on these rusted hinges, my heart beats against the boards. You do your tricks, you take your time. I am still here in the dark.
There are clear deeds, there are sacrifices. There is sunlight in your smile, halos in your hair. You are the latest incarnation of this old and weary faith, the strife of want and swell, the swollen dawn, the fleeting light. I love you now as I will love you after. I will love you to the end. These borrowed days and empty nights, the breach and ruin and rupture. I cling to each proclamation, I hold on to the bones of this hope. All the stars are out there, water beading on your skin. The words spill like ravenous kisses, the words spill like any other rush of breath. All I can do is listen.
I am rags and I am rot. There is nothing to me come tomorrow. I am lost to prophecy, out to sea without a beautiful pea green boat. The lights burn bright, then they flicker. Sadness wells as the shadows devour. I am the warm breath whispering against your neck. I am the wish for kisses, so sweet and full and passionate. I speak softly as you drift from skin to skin and dream to dream. Words weighed from this lost apostasy. The windows open and all shine extinguished. I cling to you for incarnation, knowing that all my flesh is failure. I cling to you as this darkness leaves me lost.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
the habit
The dog is barking and you’re sick in the dark, surrounded by the sounds of the wind and television, dying hard with every habit. Now the li...
-
This is how your letter finds me, as beaten and bowed as nature allows. This is how your letter finds me, a little lighter on the metaphor. ...
-
The heart is reckless mechanism. The heart is an essential worker. The heart won’t leave well enough alone. Carrying torches and keeping tim...
-
Knowing no more of music than what you hear you see three crows fly across four power lines and think: Music! And that is seeing. And that i...
No comments:
Post a Comment