A heart without a voice
May as well be a grave.
The ink hemorrhages
From my lips and ears.
my pain does not serve
Everyone from the inside out.
I would laugh if I could
Bare the sound of it.
Amongst the nettles and stars
There are no men at all,
Only wafer-thin allegiances.
My blood hardens in my chest
Like an unfulfilled wish.
I have survived despite
My own ill chosen affinities.
I have survived with a sneer
And one eye cracked open
Like an old woman’s
To whom should I assign my pain
When the burden of silence wears my nerves raw?
In each room, come a certain time,
You will find a shadow without origin,
A shadow autonomous and self-serving,
A shadow in human form
That draws closer when your legs are bare
And your principal is uncovered.
The abyss never flinches when in pursuit
and I dare not look askance for fear of collision.
Though the windows here
are too small for chance
I have opened them.
The air is nimble and the sunlight bold
Two finer companions I could not ask.
I fill three identical teacups
And arrange them in a semi-circle.
I am not asking for a miracle
Only a little warmth to dry my cheeks.
Nothing glimpsed in my nightmares
Prepared me for the mirror’s serrated edge.
There was no soul, no arabesques, no innocence
Only a scrap of burlap with the features sewn in.
Stitch by stitch I let down my smile
And laid my two button eyes in a porcelain dish.
I held my empty face over the basin,
But the water could not soften my flesh.
Should I surrender to apathy?
A ghost in a human carapace,
A rind pulled off in a single ringlet
And left to leather in the the trash.
Of what use is a mask
When it is only my own face
Doubled over on itself?
Give me another crime
For which I can atone
Otherwise I can’t guarantee coherence.
This is not my scene.
This is not my moment.
Regret is only wounded pride.
I pick the scabs as they accumulate
and let the ooze flow
According to its own currents.
The angels have all gone to sleep.
If I were to speak my truth now
No one would hear it.
The stone-faced people
Appear at each crossroads
With fingers fanned in every direction.
I sink to my knees
Pressing my forehead
Into the dust and the excrement.
They have no answers only jests.
(I have forgotten how to write poetry)