I. The child cries somewhere II. We smile III. We do not feel their hunger
Is art the hand that crafts? May art exist without emotion? May everything resemble a masterpiece?
Nostalgic lovers who dream of a past. A past relived and reconstructed to mask itself. This is all a game we play to procrastinate the present.
They make love to half of me
Howl like a creature With air as wings Press against the door Release yourself to fear
The one who thrives, the one who mimics All unknown bridges of envy, of clarity An inexpressible fear that lives in the mind
I cannot go numb I must not fall victim to the static
I lust for cherry kisses to drink golden milk from the earth you taunt me and how I ache
I doubt I know love. To recognize its existence. An unmade bed ponders you. Unfinished stanzas sit on the stairs. Next to me, who wishes to be anything else.
Time is an eclipse that holds us in its grasp Intermingling, it transpires Yet we delay We cherish our mothers and brothers and speak love to the trees to the sun to our ancestors All this love was birthed by you.
Mirrors blind the view A trick of distortion and nakedness Allowing the words to melt in my lips Watching you tremble
I withdrew with what was left of meCarrying fragmental sentences and embers of anguish A whispered love welcomed me once more