My viscera wilts sick from withholding.

My hands fall in tatters.

My jaw is a fortress of incomplete sentences.

I smuggle in secrets, tangents, moods

each one vaguer and more explicit than the next.

What becomes of those who cannot commit to freedom?

I am concave, an empty womb,

a shy moon rocking on its side,

a sliver of shadow

in a rhetorical human casing.

I have never truly loved myself

but I have tolerated worse.

My fingers are numb with lacing.

My face is a bowl of water without the quiver.

I am ready to pounce

but I lack the gravity of expectation.

What I believe and what I deserve rarely coincide.

I am in need of a blessing

but too dumb to reproduce

the details of my bondage.

How does one approach death unannounced?

Who recovers him when he returns to dust?

I was once a figment

translucent and multi-dimensional.

Now I am a destination

full of empty houses

and rust-rotted automobiles piled

posthumously into towers too precarious to climb.

Will you love me tomorrow

when I am just as imperfect,

when I lack the easement of my finely attuned senses,

when erosion has absconded with everything

but my beloved melancholia?

I cannot compete with the then

of your tiresome nostalgia.

I am but a momentary thing

recklessly new and irrevocably ancient.


8 responses to “Decomposition

  1. My fingers are numb with lacing.

    wow – did this line really grip me …. but then, the whole piece does, it is so powerful, each stanza whole and leading to the next – a prayer, a plea, petition to something for salvation – and yet a certain numbness so equally transcribed Yves …..

    I hope you’re feeling better ….

    • Thank you so much for your gorgeous, insightful comments. I often discover how I am feeling when I write but of course it is only a fraction of that because honestly I seem to be feeling everything all the time

      • *nodding head in understanding* @ seeming to be feeling everything all the time – it’s like a bloody whirlpool …. it can be exhausting – *sigh* …. but if the gift of expression helps relieve some tension, pain, joy, pleasure, etc. and maybe, now and then, offers something more, – connection, understanding, then all praise and hail to the pen, or keyboard or whatever 🙂

        Of course, it helps when one shows up – I’m notoriously good at self-denial when I know I need to write something out that is going to be hard and harsh and extremely personal – but that’s just part of the “intensity” of me – some days I just wish my brain was dandelion fluff 😉

        have a great weekend Yves 🙂

      • LOL – I might just do that – I’m having a few “off with my head days” …. can’t quite figure where it wants to be ….

        perhaps when you write it allows you some form of focus and unbridled path to not censoring yourself …. so if it works? then it’s a good thing …. 🙂

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