HARK, it is the slow poison,
it is the madness that calls me from slumber, awaking
my memories in sore places;
as a bruise
throbbing from gentle exploration, awaiting
a balm - healing waters for the troubled
spirits. in the night
faltering, when i stumbled
upon fragments of my self, whispering.
in the darkness they conspire against me;
they will hear no reason...
my eyes fluttering secrets:
the sight of your raw frame exposed by artful blinking.
my ears ringing with sound:
your voice in husky, dulcet tones echoing down
corridors, chasing my hurried footsteps.
do you follow?
do you follow me home?
my heart beat drumming, bang!
bang, banging in my chest like a volatile knocking,
and i can feel my ribs breaking
while my lips, the traitors, recall your specter...
you have awoken me for the last time;
this illness is waning. as the moon is waxing,
the night shall soon be over -
the earth bent upon welcoming
blessed daylight, by which the sun comes
shining, like a blessing.
i have grown weary of suffering and haunting,
sleepless nights and starting
when a pin drops.
i will shut up my doors,
breathing deep - the tremulous air.
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