Posts Tagged ‘burn’

Wrung from my Eyes- tears-

shed with Love’s decay.

Spring blew forth a Spark,

which roared to Flame one day.

 

Sparks now dance in my Eyes,

the Flame within my chest-

I breathe, it rises,

and will until I- Rest.

“As it has been said: 

Love and a cough

cannot be concealed.

Even a small cough.

Even a small love.” ~ Anne Sexton, Small Wire

                                *

Winter is the time I fashion clothes out of fire-

snow bites my cheeks so, and I feel

unloved. 

When desire comes about

I grab onto it, and hook it into my chest,

and knit warm and heavy shirts out of its thread,

and I burn red.

In Winter I am this

vulnerable beacon of burning love.

I am exposed to the elements.

The flames are in danger of going out,

I will be left naked in the cold.

But if I clutch the threads to my heart,

and if I invoke the name of my desired one,

my heart burns, and the fires roar;

though winds rage

I am protected by these flames.

There is a certain nobility

in silence.

If one is composed,

one can slip juicier tidbits of conversation

back, into the stomach of memory.

A silent one can hear his or her house fall, and buy a new one.

A silent one can hear the animals die,

and go out and bring them in to save her family.

A silent one can hear poison

dripped into his cup.

A silent one can hear the stars falling.

                         *

There is a certain terror in silence.

In dead of hours of day,

the sound of the sinking sun

reminds the listener

that this will all end- washed out, black,

without a sun.

In the warm clutches of folds of night

a listening one has only her thoughts,

or his heart to listen to:

and the thoughts say

“you will die, you will die. This darkness

may be the last, or only thing you see,”

and the hearts says

“i am dying, i am dying. Hear how faint i am?”

                          *

Dear reader,

you are a listener.

You are also a silent one.

Everyone, occasionally, is.

I am reaching into me

and killing this love.

I don’t know if I could call it that,

I ignore its screams as it dies

like a baby bird at the hands of a great blizzard.

It makes me want to cry,

and yet my eyes are dry steel

as I strangle this,

this stagnant love.

See, you left it that way.

Unreciprocated, and since my hands can’t reach you

they’re entering my throat

and killing this love as it rots in its own salt-filth.

It hurts, but I cannot cry,

because I am only on the edge of a desert

dancing at night

and walking, walking each day.

It has taken me over a year to journey

from the red, vacuous, and boiling center

to this edge where a bustling city moves

like opportunity.

I am killing this love to move forward.

I am leaving what fantasies,

what memories I have of you

to suffocate and burn on the sand.