These things, they happen
to have an expiration,
like the pelvis
shrinking down, itself curling into that cut of pain;
a shortness of breath, a
tugging again and again at the flesh,
below the hands - those
tools best used for hurting.
Yet what do these trifles matter, compared to the heart?
Oh, that organ it
shifts, and pumps more than precious petals, or
rosewater scent out onto
my lady's clavicle.
Can it pause, shudder
there along with my breath?
Anything to remind me of
her, anything to hold
so close, so dear a
tearstain on a letterhead that cant hold
all the passions I'm
still left here grieving.
The things that never
were, and never
soon shall be, once
more. Again?
Keeping my room from
being too clean, to neat, to trivial, for
oh the suffering, it is
real, there will come a time for all to
bow before that hurt and
hate and all the things that make our madness wellspring.
To let the water drip
down through rafters, along, over, everything.
The red cliff it
watches, glances, glares down- thunderheads grown demon form there.
The hard dial, it clicks
closer, so ever closer to the moment when, then
the bottom bag it
bursts, the best made plans cinder, wood ash meltwater making lye, when we
suddenly don't have a choice, no madness, quietude, either.
To pray and pray and
grovel, yet always knowing,
fighting against the
urge, the edge, the gaping chasm pulling all light down, ever
that secret subtle
knowing, that possibility, a turning, a leaping glee can follow,
For there is always
another way: there is always... there is always...
To make a choice then
(softly, quickly) and then?
And rest their, quietly,
at least for another day.
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