Something so assuming – a frame
to bless or condemn,
neither giving or consuming, the tiny moments of what you are –
they fall around me like summer petals –
to touch, I fear a smear –
of the plaits twilight fed through -
her hair, her eyes – these moments are too soon -
you die, a breath of first and last –
hands move across the table, words warm like liquor -
soft the heart falls and everything with it, so pure.
He reminds himself of music,
finds threadbare woes, strung on roads;
fever tracked blaze - sun, dust and moan.
He marries gently, the way she laughs -
soft the rush falls and everything with it, so pure.
These words disappear -
the tract of psychosis, my charms are –
nothing pure to exhibit, nothing only yours to kiss,
I fall apart from these things -
a thorn impaled through the night,
always hungry for a gaze, but wretched for all eyes.
I’ll appease, do not bore,
gaze - turn and throw away -
I am lyrical to nothing,
and too much a sore to see.