wuelloblack

Who has written since she fell? The dark inside, inkiest well

Dip deep your quill, scratch through your words

Spill inkblood into all your hurts.

Who has fallen since she rose? The candlelight by deepest prose

Dig out your heartache, render it used

Paint her poetry, and

Prettily refuse.

Cuarentena

Where’d the sunlight go, and to where all the shade?

Both have left walking – quite rudely, I’d say.

What shall we do without darkness or light?

Wherefore the sun? Wherefore now the night?

We cannot go on in this timeless abyss, this

Spiral of seconds that do not exist.

Confined in the circle of what was and not yet is

We wait for awake – and asleep – to be fixed.

If I don’t escape soon, I fear I’ll soon give in

But how can I give in with nothing to resist?

stuck

There is a tension in waiting

for a blow that never comes;

Your body, crumbled to posturing

perched upon your splintered throne.

 

There are eyes tired of searching,

yet unable to close for rest;

There are lungs squeezed shallow from filtering

the quietest possible breaths.

 

There is loss multiplied by loss

in the fight to never be knocked down again;

There are waves that will never drown you, yet

you cannot ever risk submerging for a swim.

 

There is knowledge of inky black

which no one can pretend not to see;

There are stains of morbid red

where your heart rips open (every other beat.)

 

There is an exquisite agony

in never feeling home;

It does damage, it curries questions

that should never be asked.

 

You cannot learn to thrive and love

when your alertness

your caution

your awareness

when your panic will never relax

a prerequisite to springtime

i see a beautiful tree, leaves

tumbling from its boughs

outstretched limbs, relief in letting go

a burden never meant to carry

alone.

 

she lets the breeze

borrow the load;

she lets the river

carry off her sorrow.

 

each crumbling memory

no longer rooted in pain

an autumn death which

brings renewal and

new breath.

Carrionspeech

I simply want to peruse the view

Circle ’round the vultures, catch the pieces they strew.

A syllable here, a vowel or two,

The cannibalized chunks of the wording we do.

I’m waiting for permission, but they’re circling lower

They don’t want to share

And that’s fair

But I’m starving.

Sdrawkcab

i’m not sure how i feel now that it’s revo,

and so many have left me to tor.

My heart feels tsol, ytpme, unwanted

and no one is still here to speak.

 

he left like the others, two winters ago

i still dream of him from the long before.

i see him in faces of men whose blood

never burned quite so black;

and from whatever traumas, they’ve found their way back,

but not him. not him. i still pray all the time

one day your heart will be healed

and maybe you’ll say

hello again

to mine.