Forsaken by the Moon

-

Does the river feel

the weight of its banks,

or the clover bed sense

night folding in?


If the mockingbird sings

a requiem beneath the moon,

perhaps this heart could learn

to cleave the cord

that’s bound to you.


Forsaken by the moon—

that cold, wavering crescent,

a lantern flickering false,

casting echoes of fractured vows.


Lies upon lies:

a gale gnarling branches,

a snare of tangled twine,

mist that smothers rivulets.


I hate that I love you.

I love that I hate you.

If hate could bury love,

the death knell would have rung—


long before the sun

could swallow the moon.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Sleeping Pearl (and the World)

-
Image
Lily-white baby— fresh-clotted cloudlets, splaying, wiggling across linen drift. Skin translucent as shoji, suffused with sun-glow— blooming amber, lit from within. Then the world crackled open— daddy longlegs, the brute’s leer, my belly trampled under his heel— limbs spindled through nettles, knotting into barked-over  hide— calcified over tender  pulp. This hermetic skin— primitive armour— sealed out shadow and  sunbeam alike. A baby tucked  so deep inside she forgot herself, forgot time— until a wrinkle in sapphire, a seashell’s sigh stirred the comatose pearl— while I, cinching my ribs  against the evil eye, hands outstretched— how do I catch a falling petal, palm unfurled— or let the light  seep  through wisp-line fractures of my soul, grain by glinting grain— until— pearl remembering
Read more

The Anatomy of Self-Awareness

-
Image
My dear self-awareness, Mortal blade or blessing? To drift in lush, milky oblivion, Or congealed, soul-curdling truth? To veil my eyes in opaline corsets, Or pry open with rusted curettes? Ever ensnared by legions within, I carve into my marrow,  flay a pound of my seething flesh And wonder —  Who wielded the dagger? My rogue doppelgänger traipses, World-defiling, world-pollinating, While I waste  in mildew’s attic— A child-wolf ghost,  sealed in centuries,  Peering through a keyhole. The pawn scripts the gambit. The puppet wrings  blood from its strings. The sinner etches her name Into the hanging tree Where the rope licks her throat in embrace. I’m the gargoyle, leering in the looking glass, Inveigling my wretched reflection — If I have wings, doesn’t that make me … a seraphim? This spindly fly trap of a nervous system Siphons venom, suckles treacle-scars — A vial of poison wrapped in a bowtie, A Victorian gaslight doused in silk lies.
Read more

Silent Screamer, God-Killer

-
Image
Gnashes carved in concrete — stains of desperation, relentless attempts to gnarl her way out of this eternal chasm. Unravelled depths  unrivalled  by the Behemoth’s bite , desolation’s fog prowls in wait, smothers  every  inkling of sight. What becomes of an impenetrable  fortress who meets an unyielding force? Only false hopes — phantom-slick and writhing — slither thro ugh  the cracks, painting illusions  in chiaroscuro glow on stone-cold  parapets. Gnashing her teeth, she rends gashes — ripping  her nail beds clean from flesh. She, the silent screamer  summons the inner god-killer,   swearing an oath of death. She will revive the ruins, alchemise void and vacuum into a forest of vastness — a cathedral forged  from obsidian splinters  born of dust and rupture. The séance is sealed by sacrifice. At long last, she surrenders,       down,     down,  down,  her vessel plummets through...
Read more