Category Archives: Loss

How To Love A Flower

 

Many a manner of flowers, bewildering in their beauty
were passed through your hands, encoding zeros.
At such time, I was the one.
perfect beauty
no other flower could emulate.
A stunning blossom, grown from your desire.
The moment you reached for me, the darkness ceased.

You picked me from the womb of earth, and
I was given this new birth.
In that fatal moment your eye flickered,
and the sun screamed for me.

narcissi….

Your appreciation
is the weight of the rock
Sisyphus knows…
constantly pushed uphill,
until it rolls down
too heavy to bear
Itself.

Your eyes were immortal orbs of power, which melted molten into ash…

Tell me we can have them back…
!!!
Take the obsidian,
make it shine again..
make you mine again.

 

 

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Filed under Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Reflections on Nursing 

 

You are like me, it’s how you’re supposed to be, so smile and be free says the bird in her, to the cage in me, creaking silver rusted memories. Abduct and adduct arms fast like wings, to fly on out of this place. Your mind is without limit, flapping like a fish on earth inside your body, and as such your spirit laughs in the face of this absolute powerlessness, the absurdity of a weakened system, which fails to reflect the stirrings of a child within, who knows eternal strength, uplifting. Infantile and so, deemed useless, without the ability to prove oneself worthy. Yesterday centennial celebrations, in a society who is not keen on decay. “I’m lonely,” lady of Italy, who spits out the soup in distaste as I spoon feed her lies, in an attempt to comfort her, silence her, in the kitchen, where they gather our incompetence’s, small checks in boxes indicating our failure to thrive. She says she is lonely, this is the pathos of the human plight, and I without ability to heal, provide the most basic of human needs, company, and a spoon, where her hand has failed to hold, and her mouth refuses to open save for spitting obscenities, which amuse me. Hot blooded Italian from the old country. Her family come to visit, and her granddaughter gives me the once over, a power dyke, and me in white, all white, as though I were pure.

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Filed under Aging, Alone, Loneliness, Loss, Malady, Medical, Memory, Mortality, Nursing, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Flowers Wilt on the Fringe of the Crowd

Pick me for the dance, this is your last chance, soon the music dies.

A bouquet is thrown toward a roaring crowd of lonely people,

I am you, the other half of a twilight sky,

the part where the sun goes to cry.

Out on the fringe, where time gets singed,

as all those paralyzed moments of waiting

fade like wilted flowers.

 

Your hand, my hand, a memory and a dream intertwined.

Somewhere in another life we are together, perhaps a

parallel world exists, a place where all those petals picked

float down, landing in the hands of those who never

knew they were wanted.

She loved me,

she loved me not.

 

She did not want love at all,

only to be left alone in a glass vase

of unbreakable crystal.

 

Life breaks those who are fragile,

they fall from hands like stems

that smash on marble,

spilling the wine of potential.

 

You could spend your whole life sipping,

and never fully tasting,

or swallow it all in one shot and be done,

say all I needed has entered my bloodstream,

been detoxified through this one vein,

under pierced skin,

hard against the pulse of desire,

where this steady hand,

holds an empty syringe.

 

Birds refuse to fly in dark skies.

Sometimes the wind carries them

wing by wing,

as they balance against the storm,

a pair of blackbirds, separate from the

entire flock,

I watch them soar,

and think of us,

together,

swaying under the stars.

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Filed under Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Depression, Desire, Distance, dreams, Longing, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Stalemate

I don’t understand chess, I never learned it, but I do get that there are Queens and Kings and pawns, and I understand the concept of a stalemate. I think all my past relationships ended that way. “I can’t make any moves, seems like a dead-end here, you copy?” “Over and out I read you, no moves to be made, all possible moves cancelled out.” It’s like being on a two-way radio playing chess. How the hell did this happen? Fuck my life as they say. I’ve never had luck with women and I never had a real desire to learn chess. To me it seems like something old people do, like golf, golf, chess, and ballroom dancing. If I ever get that stale mate, check me off the board. I’d rather not continue, I’d rather find myself at the end with no more moves left to make and a pocket full of memories of how things used to be fun, and I’ll take those and sit in the sun with a drink and a book, and stare at hot young Greek girl’s asses by the beach in Mykonos, no wait that’s something my ex girlfriend did when I was with her in the sun on a Greek island. She told me quite frankly, as we watched a young woman walking on the beach. “she has a nice ass,” and I thought this girl sure doesn’t hold back her thoughts, but she was right, I suppose, only those things never much mattered to me, maybe when I’m really old I’ll miss being young enough to imagine waking up in a spoon position with some Greek girl’s tight ass against my pelvis, but if she’s one of those carefree bitches, I’ll feel worse rather than better, and if she’s got too much of a tortured mind to have fun, then I’ll be equally tormented, so who cares about her ass, it’s only good to look at and imagine something better. But I got her back later at the café that evening, a lovely waitress came out to serve our coffee, and as she walked away I declared “wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman so hot in my whole damn life, what a Goddess!” And my ex just looked at me and said “thanks a lot.” I aim to please I guess, but then you know, we hit that place of no going forward and no going back, and as I reflect, there was never anything for us to go forward to together, and never a reason for me to go back, except maybe to sit in the sun, on a gorgeous Greek island, and enjoy the view.

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Filed under Aegean, Alone, Break Ups, Challenge, Cleansed, Comedy, Conversation, creative, Greece, Greek, Humour, Lesbian, Loneliness, Loss, Memory, Message, Poem, poetry, Prose, Relationships, travel, writing

Feeling less alone, (on the nature of depression and butterflies)

Today I learned that the deep depression on the inner center of a human skull resembles a butterfly. Peering within, it’s as though at some time, this transitory beauty was meant to forever imprint upon us the delicate nature of a fleeting journey. Only if the skull is cremated or destroyed, does the memory of that gentle flower-seeker disappear. Within the hemisphere, the pituitary signaler of hormones, transmits chemicals to her butterfly mate, who lives innate in our throats, where the ability to speak, from time maternal, depends upon the migration of the one butterfly, straying south, and the other staying north, for without their separation, the vital energy it takes to live would cease. Such sacrificial love in nature creates brilliancy, but what’s more, it is the lack of electrical current that defines depression, as inhibitory. If this myopic view excludes further truth, it may one day be discovered that the real origin of our cranial pain, and mental suffering are related to this separation, to this lack of excitation within the neuronal center. It’s not the fact that there is a lack of stimulation, it is instead a lack of attention, a lack of response. “Soak me in serotonin, and watch me cry,” sings the butterfly. “No,” cries the other butterfly, “you are mistaken, I am that shadow, existing within the grey area, where the cloud formation never dissipates, do not think I can dissolve into elation. I journeyed once, more than a day, which in my time was forever, and I knew feeling and taste as vividly as each step one takes. Although I live in the echo from phonemes breaking, my real truth lies in the upper regions, where words form in synaptic response to thought, dark, enduring thought, which keeps my soul from dying, much like your heart beat keeps your body from flying. Through resonance and dissonance I am cocooned inside of you, always.”

The nurse sits with the patient as they discuss the power of non-verbal communication, ie; touch. “When you hold my hand,” she tells her, “I know you are there, it’s like a flower growing in my spine, I can feel it, I can sense it growing there, and though I know it will die once you let go, it helps me to feel less alone, it’s like a thousand astrocytes lighting up the dark sky inside of me.”

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Filed under Borderline, Butterfly, Conversation, creative, Death, Depression, Distance, Drowning, Identity, inspirational, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Message, Mortality, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Self, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Impermanence

Before the glass shattered, it was already broken they say, true to the Zen principle of impermanence. I think of the day I first emerged from the taxi, taking your glass hand in mine, feeling the fragility of every molecule of crystal flowing in the summer light between our glass bodies as we held eachother. I recall the glass city, yet to be explored, shimmering with the beauty of ancient temples, mineral by mineral. I pay glass money to the mosaic man, whose eyes reflect in green visions from a childhood, still seen, on the surface of sand, surrounding the Pacific Ocean, where I shattered into sunlight, collecting broken bottles, which the water shaped to resemble lost gems of treasure. Where has that child gone, her body a mere memory held in cracked neurons, sustained there between the darkness and the stars? I am that bottle, I am that eye, fixated in green brilliance, over the radiance of these shattered encounters, from zygote grin to wrinkled skin. That day on the street, when the glass savior with blot on spoon, dissolving into liquid, injecting through syringe into glass vein through semen, into ovum, the opium of my fluid existence. I hear chimes ring as the wind smashes them against the window, echoing across this wild , wintry country, the songs he sang before my time of fiery emergence. I am that bottle, always accompanying me, in the broken luminescence between light and shadow. I tread carefully amid two contradicting forces, the one with glass breasts and the one with glass phallus, anima and animus, one jagged splinter, ever forging toward the mercurial, toward the mesenchyme of osteoblast and hyaline, ever regenerating new bones, new placenta, new spearhead toward multicellular matrix fold of glass rose, glass wine, glass romance, capable of falling from the balcony where my glassy infatuation lies, already a hazard to the lovers who pass by barefoot and careless tongued. Your countenance glistens, not with the warmth of orbital, but that of ice, incapable of deliquescing. Shatter me a million times, I am already broken, broken like a blister on the lips, where we kiss away the cancerous rays of ultraviolence. Don’t tell me the circle of vibrational circumference is always gravitating further away, because if you say this, we might need to stay, held down by the force of the world, which is forever fated to break.

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Filed under Heroin, Identity, Illusion, Loss, Memory, Poem, poetry, Time, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Control, Alt, Delete

You are born in ethereal light, funereal flow through vessel of heart, where  room holds caskets, bassinets, tourniquets, places to sleep, to dream, to waken. On the day of your departure from veins, warmth of crimson, rush of celebration, permeates receptor cells, life the mournful fall, death the joyful rise, pulling coins from your eyes, toll for the boatman, an atheist bent on sinking, cargo of karmic, a vessicle of rebirth, bursting forth, dissolving the old self and its former memories, dreams, hopes, and procreation. Reversal of ego, the fluidity of self. They give you a name, a place, a face, a position between two poles, a selective offering of chromosomes, and then they take it all away, leave you as a blank slate, you the great author, illiterate, inarticulate, mouthing desires, forming fears. Before you get here you are complete, experience erases data-
control, alt delete.

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Filed under creative, Death, Disenchantment, Displacement, Evolution, Identity, Illusion, Journey, Life, Loss, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Soul, Spirit, Time, travel, writing

Violation

A voice is an echo on the shores of a river, cry of the loon. It is a new moon, a full moon, followed by the long snows moon. Ice encapsulates our memories as we tread the surface of a deep forgetting. To remember is to drown. My heart lives in this perpetual spring, melting into currents that violate the very rhythm of this cold season.

image

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Filed under Ice, Identity, Introversion, Journey, Life, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Mortality, North, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Seasons, Silence, Snow, Solitude, Soul, travel, Winter, writing

S’agapo

Dear Mrs. L, I do and she does too, but we are careful not to let ourselves slip in front of you. Your face is kind, somewhat shy, demure, and pure. Your hands hold the wheel as though you’ve always known which turn to take, in the mad rush of seasons in a city full of malakes, recession, and malaise, your kindness is a palpable presence that one can not articulate. The many lives you guided and led into this world, a rehearsal for your own girl, who would for a time be my girl, my cat, my kitten, my angel, my baby, my sweetheart, my joy, my madness, my agony, my pleasure, my ecstacy, my hurt, my love, agape mou. Thank- you for all your quiet and generous suffering. For the kisses on the cheek, for the Christmas sweets. For the sun and the absence of it. Dear Mrs L thank you for my heaven, and thank-you for my hell. S’agapo.

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Filed under Break Ups, Broken, Conversation, creative, Dedication, Greek, Loss, Love, Malakes, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, travel

Rupture

The day love turned abiotic is the day my corpse lay in bed and did not move for a century. In that century a sentence was written, that contained the entirety of what I felt. The simplicity of a ray of light, wherein all the sun was contained lay in the secular shadow of the curtains that hung like death waves over my window, each time the wind blew, the tide of my life pulled out, then in, then back away from me, and as some wish to recover this, I did not. I slept for a moment, one could not measure, yet in that moment, eternity, and with it all hope, all desire or need of ever waking. The velvet box in which my love lay, they shoveled upon it the earth, on the outside, metal latches and mahogany, within no scream, no dream, no vision, simply velvet mouth where words never fell, velvet tongue, where thoughts dissolved like acid, turning the light into sharp particles of memory, of a time when we walked near the ocean together, and your hand, as I reached for it, became black molecules of star dust fading. The earth, which I used to revere suddenly seemed absurd for being here all these billions of years. Why did it go on regrowing, regenerating all that dead mass of emptiness and decay, If you were only going to go away? Go away, then return again, as this blade, cutting into me, in the center where my heart once beat like the wings of a bird flying home. I’ll stay here clutching my head, my heart, my body, all these things you wouldn’t hold, these things too big for this world to contain. I’ll choke and hemmoraghe, I’ll convulse, my eyes will grow weary where they once shone. All this will take place in a moment, and in that moment each part of me will surrender and retrace each part of you back through time, until it’s as though neither of us were ever here. I’ll erase those parts you said were forever young, replace them with wrinkles and routine, the carefully constructed silence of these walls, this depth from oceanic to a measured distance of six feet, of a life compacted into fragments and unwanted bones. I’ll do all this alone as I walk and breathe, smile and attentively seem to be here, the world won’t know otherwise. It will be my secret. One day a patient will say, those nurses are all so jaded, it’s as if they’ve seen life, watched it fade away day by day, but never cared to make it stay, and I’ll say nothing, I’ll smile and donate my blood as if I always loved and never knew the feeling of a heart break.

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Filed under Freedom, Hypocrisy, Loss, Love, Pain, Poem, Repressed, Sorrow, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Love Crisis

“What do you think? I’m not a starfish or a pepper tree. I’m a living, breathing human being. Of course I’ve been in love.”—Haruki Murakami–

And that’s why I get tense when you ask me who I love, who I have loved. I wish I could take your hand and lead you to a secluded place far above a big city, looking down I’d tell you, “that, over there!! I love the way the moon shines full and rustic in the shadows.” If I could become a particle of light or an ion of black, I’d marry that moon. Look, look over there where strangers walk, the one with the gaze of sadness, you know that feeling of being alone and distant even though you are right next to someone? I could marry that girl. I love his red car, the one he worked and saved so hard for to impress her. I love the way the bakery smells at 4am when all the city sleeps and this warm sweet air wisps up to me as I stand on the terrace, smoking a cigarette, drinking a strong cup of coffee that I made in the French press as my girlfriend slept. I love the way she is unaware of my awakeness. How if she heard me, she would wake up and scream as though she were facing a life crisis at 4am. I should not be awake, don’t I know the time?! But back home on another continent I am at work, punching the clock, tolling the hours, working so hard to make my way back to her again. I arrive on her birthday, it’s nearing Christmas and I’m sick. I’m sick and I have been through holiday travel hell, but I did it all for her, and when morning arrives too soon, and the time zones haven’t worked their way into my system, all I’m asking for is a little consideration. Just a little understanding baby. That’s all I want. I love everything and then when it becomes too much, I empty my cup in the sink and laugh at her dramatics. I love no one and everyone and nothing at all. But am I in love? I am in love with the way I imagine your eyes as they search mine for an answer. That’s what I most love. I love your searching, the way you seek meaning, as if to say, all this, all that we love which is going to fall and shatter like a broken cup on the street below us, would suddenly matter somehow, that the break, the injury would be tolerable as long as it held meaning, as long as it didn’t lie or become enraged and strike you when you got out of place. As long as there was hope of loving further, loving more, loving always.

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Filed under Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry

Myth

What is it I want to tell you? That this red throb is nothing, that this air can perpetuate without your breath, either inhale or exhale. That you exist in a swirl of random chaos like a flowing current of fierce rhythm that pulls you further down into the black miasma, or the blood stained sky. That there is no you and I. No nothing there where honey flows from crafty hands of chemosynthetic mind, longing for something, untouchable, unnameable, blind. Creating energy out of dark, when there is absence of sun light. That you are a rare night blossom, whose jasmine scent permeates all it touches with the potential of hope, of meaning, of a calm receding, where all life draws in it’s chaotic tides, and the swell of the sea inside releases me, frees me to love you in dreams. In dreams I am a stranger to myself, mirrors cast back reflections of lies. I close my eyes and draw in the darkness, emitting red beacons across the islands that separate us, blink and they dissolve, breathe and they depart. Her small hand heals my infinite ache. Her soft lips take me in, her searching tongue is without speech, in my mouth, where silence falls between two disarmed warriors, with their sharp thrusting. Your eyes are my shelter, they shine on this sorrow, penetrating where nothing else ever could. I leave you as quietly as I arrived, on a bitter winter night, bound for an arctic city, far from the magic and myth of your body with it’s warmth and it’s velvet reprieve. Returning again to the scrape of these lonely hours, the raw, the red, the crimson that throbs under this empty facade.

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Filed under Alone, Arctic, Distance, Identity, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, writing

Synesthesia

On a red Wednesday far away.
How far must one feel before it is real? The smell of vanilla reminds me of the creamy sky when the shape of a dinosaur floats by, reminding me then of old caves deeply unearthed, vapour clouds and the reach of Everest the cataclysm of continents drifting and shifting. I think of you who existed in the same world where eggs were fertilized. The time when our species made the great leap, structurally adapting our homologous bodies, from wings, to fins, to the epic void of these empty arms that never held you. We breathed the same air during the same era and yet it’s as if you are a character in a book that existed in a time I can only imagine. So it is that blue is synonymous with the mountain crest where the roaring Pacific faultline pulls like two magnetic forces, an entire separate continent into the arms of another, that time when cultures collide and adapt into common ancestors of different origins, and you smile that orbital smile as the ozone of your affections protects me from the radiation that threatens complete eradication of our species. I love you duplicitous flower, love you black tar highway whose deceit makes the sky appear deep.

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Filed under Earth, Environment, Evolution, Geographical Cure, Heroin, Ideas, Identity, Illusion, Immortal, Indigenous, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Overdose, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Sea, Self

The Enigma

Each day I am becoming,
I am also unbecoming,
becoming who I am,
unbecoming who you want me to be.
The hero in you, is the hero in me,
cut flower bleeding pure.

I am steel gaze of blazing spirit.
I will myself into what I envision.
Puff of opium, syringe of heroin,
this clean body, that never
succumbed to the dragon.

I am wizard woman on mountain,
casting spells to bring you out of
your last heroic nod, poppy seed
in eyes of foreign God.

I will learn the art of resuscitation,
resurrect the fallen, the street man,
who held my photograph in his hand,
wondering what I might become,
the mystery man, with braided hair
and dark skin, the one who never
found his way out of the stem.

My father, the enigma.

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Filed under Addiction, Alone, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Death, Heroin, Loss, Memory, Overdose, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sobriety, Sorrow, Tragedy, Truth, Unwanted, writing

Eternity

Can the lizard crawling out from the wall, refuged in coolness be a transformation of the stone, from which it emerges? Is it possible my heart surges with the voltage to ignite a storm, but not the velocity required to light up a city? With enough electricity it could black out the entirety of our world. Lightning crash of black over vision of future. Apocalypse of heart under glare of sun flare. Or is it merely stillness through a crack, where the perception of feeling jolts us back to the presence of this power, thunderclaps through scorched synapses, fusing where the heart clenches, heavy like the fist of Poseidon? Take the heart out of the equation and there is only the still and cool observation of things that emerge and return, seeking asylum from the vagaries of these moods, the inhale and exhale of cyclic energy repressed in the psyche. What does it mean to miss me? What transformation occurs between head and heart when I hear the succour of your voice in child-like tones, asking if I miss you? What does it mean to miss someone who has curled in the alcove of your most ardent organ? What of the restless reptilian that molted through the heart’s eruption and shapeshifted into the skin of a cold blooded amphibian crawling out from the wall on the balcony, overlooking Eden? Would you know to avoid the temptation, else would all the world turn black again? Would the obsidian shores of Santorini crystalize under the sun, whose bright rays lay buried beneath the blistered basalt of a solidified flow? We might never know more than what draws tide to shore, what causes spark to ignite, what kills the light of our universe, yet the mystery of that most vital organ, remains as arcane as the flint of our gaze through a crack in the wall of eternity.

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Filed under creative, Distance, dreams, Earth, Emotions, Greece, Greek, introspective, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Prose, Relationships, Self, writing

Disintegration

The latte scalds my tongue ,
hot as the tears that flow from
somewhere untouched,
somewhere unseen,
somewhere you are ,
somewhere you’ve been
somewhere disintegrates
somewhere evaporates,
like steam.

When you vanish I disintegrate
When I stay I disintegrate
All life disintegrates
into nothing.
Burn my heart out
like the flame
of the candle,
whose dark
phantom
dissolves me.

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Filed under Loss, Love, Pain, Poem

An Echo, A Stain

Beautiful refrain,
hearing her voice again,
an echo, a stain,
out from the depths of a sensual carnage.
She wrecks me with her cadence, 
(tone & pace)
the lyrical grace of her tongue,
the memory of what it did to you,
what she did, under cover of night,
cover of white sheets, so pristine,
in the same bed we shared years later,
when the wrinkle of time,
unwinds in my chest,
unravels from under me,
as tendrils, pushing me up,
pulling me under.
Pushing me up, pulling me down to you,
soft child of the tides,
releasing poison from her heart,
your cleanliness, makes me crave
no other sorrow.

Sleeping in a haunted bed, in a room full of ghosts,
I choke on your love for me.

“Dead to me, dead to me.
I could never be free of you,
without having to lose you.”

Extinguish a cigarette on her tongue,
watch her in motion under the light,
vinyl hands, overlapping
intravenous music,
skip and repeat, skip and repeat.
Her voice a drop of rain
in the desert heat,
the slow flow of euphoria,
the wreckless beauty of the ones
who left me in their seductive shadows,
finger inside of you, tongue in your mouth, synchronized
with the needle’s rhythm.

Is it possible I feel nothing because I’ve built a tolerance to heaven?

The next kiss or word could be a fatal overdose.

The sunflowers push up
from under your bed,
covering us in a yellow sea.
She stands over us naked,
spitting seeds.

We all have our versions of paradise.

You are mine.

You are mine

 παρακαλώ,
 παρακαλώ.

You are mine.

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Filed under Addiction, Beauty, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Desire, Emotions, Greek, Grief, Infatuation, Jealousy, Lesbian, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Needles, Pain, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sapphic, Sarah Kane, Sorrow

Ebb & Flow

My blood origin is water but thicker than any oil. We were the people of the rapids, always following the tides in and out, as far as they could carry us in our birch bark boats. My grandfather the great Eagle spirit, who could be called on the wind at will, would carry the message of love across the rivers. My father the feathered dancer, always ran with the shadows, ran with the quick horses, wild across the prairie sky, far on towards the high hills, westward to the mountains. He caught the rapids in his veins, the eagle song rushed through him too fast, and I lost his tracks on the wind, it beat quick through his heart like that rabbit on the rails who cried from the weight of the train cutting across his leg. Love is mercurial this is what I chased. I danced with strangers who I hoped could show me deeper into what I felt behind my eyes, spirits passing by like clouds, dark over my head, deer child in storms, under cover of night, crying to the pleiades, snared beneath a thousand shooting stars, willing forward. This is who we are, these are my kin, wild on the hunt, with a scent in us that says love is of this, caught between these river rocks, these feathers, this sky. We follow that scent towards eachother like wild animals marking their journey home again, we will meet at the shore one day. My father visits me in dreams, speaks through the others, offers symbols to guide me closer to the turtle of truth who rises up towards the light. He told me of the 7 teachings, the sacred ways we follow, a path of shells. The beaver works hard to build up these twig towers of hydro electric power that allow us to connect. But the buffalo speaks of respect, tells me “we all have a gift, don’t waste yours, for if beaver did, he would grow long in the tooth and die,” and then we would have a great loss of life, a loss of light to lead us through these dark times.

image

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Bird, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, creative, Earth, Environment, First Nations, Fish, Folklore, Forest, Freedom, Identity, Indigenous, inspirational, Journey, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Narrative, Ojibwe, Poem, poetry, Saulteaux, Self, Shadow, Soul, Traditions, Verse, writing

Sorrow

My mother is glacial. It must come from eons of emotional tundra, no antifreeze to keep from the below thirty arctic breeze that blows over this country. In winter I wrap my body in a coat of down, the geese have shed their warm feathers for my survival. It’s them or me. I liken myself to a polar bear whose padded steps crush the compacted snow and leave a trail for the others to follow. We get blinded by white when visibility is cut to zero, it’s flailing arms and falling flakes of crystallized beauty, it’s albino city. The skyscrapers are lighthouse beacons in a sea of snow, scrape the windows, scrape my heart, peer out at the drifts of accumulated sorrow, it falls heavy, we’re up to our necks in it, buried 6 feet under without a shovel. The highways are treacherous with black ice, driving is not advised, there’s a windchill warning, less than 3 minutes and your skin will form ice crystals and die, it will blacken beyond repair, like your arms were never there, they break off like chiseled bricks of empty onyx.

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Filed under Arctic, Canada, Canadian, creative, Emotions, Ice, Loss, North, Pain, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Silence, Sorrow, Winter, writing

Invisible

Thank you for not loving me.
This is only my hand, hold on to it and it becomes no hand, no star, no worldly offering or other thing of meaning, such as a limb that is suspended near my body and lays meaningless without the desire to heal or mend this heart that gushes quietly and violently within…

I can get by on lesser organs than the sun, so vital to one’s existence.

One never knows what she misses, my mouth you press into wishes that blow off like pinwheels from branches and hit the earth spinning

Your leg twisted on air, as a dancer’s thigh gets by on physics alone, no chemistry can be found between the earth and sky.

There is no her.
No I.

An eye peers deep and dissecting into my soul.

What is there remains
invisible.

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Filed under creative, Gravity, Identity, Infatuation, inspirational, Longing, Loss, Love, poetry

The Effigy

In Tinos where you were baptized, they took the cap off the sky and light poured into the watchful eyes of a virgin dove. They bathed you in such pure water that Mary herself held a shell up for your christening, it cracked in the centre like porcelain and you smiled, that sharp smile of annihilation, hard and cold as the marble, where they laid your body.

As a child I wanted my own girl to hold, like the dolls my grandmother kept in the attic from her childhood years in England, pristine, dressed in cotton and wool, and buttoned up to perfection. She told me that one day they would all be mine if I could prove my love for only one .

I chose the most delicate doll, made of porcelain, with a lace dress and silk stockings , she had dark hair and green eyes, her mouth was painted blood red, and her skin was as white and fragile as egg shells. My own beautiful Κούκλα to hold when I felt lonely.

I placed her on a shelf in my room and stared admiringly at her countenance . One day a sadness incubated in her throat that was as colossal as a Trojan horse filled with a thousand warriors , it broke open and choked me into silence.

I felt the swell of it flood my room and sink down on my chest like a pile of rocks from a well where a man fell down and drowned. Every night he entered me like an avalanche until my heart cracked and love fled from me like a startled bird on a ledge, away from the view of everyone.

As I matured a hunger grew inside that threatened to shatter me. Her pale skin was stained with the markings of a monstrous molestation. Fingerprints from crimson tarnishings smeared over her body like stigmata. She methodically guided my hand down to the centre of the world and I was swallowed there inside of her until I too became as porcelain.

I lay next to her frail frame and entered a wolfishness that no tenderness could tame. She lay motionless as I caressed her and she fed me her despair until my teeth broke and my eyes fell on the floor. My left hand lay groping in the cellar, while my right hand held the edge of the balcony, parts of me lay scattered everywhere like broken shells.

The day of reckoning came and my grandmother smashed a gavel on my hand. The DNA strand of three generations unravelled from my wrist in a long purple tendril and crawled under the rocks, deep beneath a seabed of sunken dreams.

They carried my body like an effigy through the streets, burned candles in a cloud of smoke that shadowed my soul. I am destined to belong to none, a fallen messiah, a dark pariah, possessed by every girl I meet, love fills me with a fullness none can keep from shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Depression, Enslaved, Loss, Love, Narrative, Poem

Kintsukuroi

I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Borderline, Broken, Chaos, creative, Depression, Displacement, Enslaved, Flowers, Grief, introspective, Loss, Malady, Memory, Mental Health, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Self, Shadow, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul, Sun, Swan, Swan Song, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Enigma

It was easy in the beginning when you were open,

further on I needed
a secret password and permission to enter,

near the end I found myself in a limitless labyrinth with a thousand locked doors, where you sent me to find the key.

The further I searched, the more lost you became to me,

at last I saw a sign that read; freedom station straight ahead,

I opened the door on
an empty room,
a spiral of smoke and mirrors, the enigma of what we become when love locks us out and throws the key down into the darkest place,
where we’d never think to look,
our
own
hearts.

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Filed under creative, introspective, Loss, Love, Narrative, poetry, Self, writing

Too Sober

Too sober to fuck stars bright so they fade, fade in the night without gold. 

Too close to want to hold if you see in me this black sky,
that makes wishes die.

” But I will turn my eyes from you  
 As women turn to put away 
The jewels they have worn at night  
And cannot wear in sober day.”

C. Barthelette 
S. Teasdale

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Filed under creative, Desire, Grief, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Sex, Sexuality, Sobriety, Sorrow, Stars, writing

Silver Lining

Birth is that crystallized moment when form emerging from dark is grown mistakenly into slavery, the brutality where we are hopelessly adopted into a pulsing world without love, delivered into the possessive hands of a stranger, encompassing us in liquid mercury, dissolving as we strive to gather cohesively, the quicksilver self that eludes us our entire lives into the fluid freedom of death’s sterling soul.

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Filed under Adoption, Birth, Bondage, creative, Death, Displacement, Enslaved, Freedom, Identity, Journey, Life, Loss, poetry, Self, Silver, Soul, Unwanted, writing

What if

Power lines and the thought that I could climb.

Your hands gesticulating, motioning me back into a feathery bed of passivity.

The pillars of the bridge engulfed by the engorged red, unattainable love I felt, swirling in violent cyclones of possibility. If I stand and watch the swirl of water, like a small child who perceived herself a screaming fish, spiraling down a drain, lifeless. If your mouth could kiss away the death that overshadowed my withering frame in the halls of a consensual prison, we called work, then nocturnal birds would have never watched my mother from the post facing east, and signalled the ominous, the premonitive , what if…

What if she slept and I was the night guard keeping watch over spirits? What if I stood on the boxes in the back room of the building and tempted my fate with a rope and a crate, tied around a beam, leading somewhere I had once been before this life? What if that exacto knife hadn’t opened my arm and caused such alarm among us? What if when she slept I found bottles of Captain Morgan’s and took the keys to one of the vans in the driveway, took a hose from the industrial vacuum and shoved it methodically, one end in the tailpipe, the other in my mouth, with the doors locked and the radio playing what were meant to be the last songs I heard as I stared up at the starlit sky drinking 21 shots for every year I was alive.

What if all of this and still you took me home and held me by your side until that storm subsided? You laughed and chided my attempts at life and death until I had given all I could of blood and sex to you, and it left me in stitches.

Then a girl turned into a woman and kept walking, unconvinced by your feigned displays of love & mercy. A girl who was nothing more than a serotonin depraved burden to your artificial, feel good, polyana ways.

Climbing power lines, shirking the electricity, jumping twenty feet into nothing for you. It never ceased to  amuse, you wanted something more substantial, like semen and the demon of a vacuous tube, sucking unborn dreams away.

But what if your fingers were razorblades and your lips were a red abyss and every kiss you gave cut into me with the thirst for something deeper?

Things at which you smirked and slithered away, cowering. With the “oh Gods and what nows” when I played Anathema or Theatre of Tragedy, and you walked out of my apartment unable to bear it.

You were the amusement whose pleasure wore out on me. When you could not abide my pain or sustain my darkness.

I surged on alone deeper and deeper, further and further away from you, towards a city where a tenebrous girl flicked her blond hair and noted the sadness behind my smile, able to see more deep, able to keep shadows.

Remember when I told you I was lost? You said you would send a taxi to find me, but you fell over and nearly dropped the phone when I told you I was across the country, where I’d gone on a whim to reclaim something that never belonged to me. So she didn’t and you don’t and what does, belong to me? The names of constellations, the origin of beauty?

Or just this…what if?

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Filed under Bleed, Chaos, Control, Death, Depression, Drowning, Fish, Freedom, Loss, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, writing

Her eyes are a dark cave

Her eyes are a dark cave where I gaze deeply at a thousand stars, traveling in progression through the centuries, a written documentary of our souls. On stone walls I carve out these symbols of affection and she interprets my love for her with searching fingers in the night, tracing those arcane lines into light.

We are each in the other seeking an answer to our own being before the sea rises and washes away our poems, etching our memories like fossils on stones, translating our dreams into beautiful beams that pass from the ash of that dusty distance to our present existence.

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Filed under Beauty, creative, dreams, Immortal, Journey, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Soul, Stars, Time, travel

Nothing owns me, only you

Seems like girlhood conditioned me to be that woman who hides in that place between dark & light, the place that casts shadows. It hurts to be admired. To have the same scars as others with the same particles of stars coursing through your veins. Maybe I was eight, but maybe I never existed. I was not yours by blood, but you found me as a girl hunted while night flooded in through the open balcony and you came & went and pretended not to see me naked, violated. That boy, just a budding man had taken me from behind, and all you did was walk away and lock the door on your daughter. I must have wanted it, wanted like the purple and blue left on me by you whenever I ran away. Little girls stray. I always did. But that was so small and inconsequential (like your manhood) and then you had the nerve to say you knew, you know why I was so stunted. Mother was the same, she would hand me away to the wolves. I remember being only four years old and hiding under her skirt, where I felt most safe. That was my first time going astray. I went on many adventures into those places between dark & light, places of non-existence. I would later be reaching for things not seen by others. I was sure I could touch them, make them real somehow, bring them into the light to display. I was in a trailer, riding out into the country, a girl and a wolf, alone together. I felt his  fingers to be like spiders, that was the game; the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the little girl’s leg and into her panties to play, the sky went grey and I went with it. The rain fell and I squinted my eyes at the horses on the open prairies, behind the fence, tamed to be ridden into the distance of the forest, where we once ran free as children, without arachnophobic memories. The rain kept falling, it rained and rained. I was five years old and another budding boy took my hand and led me by a lake, forced himself in my mouth and told me to keep swallowing. That is when I first learned to swim, like a small mermaid, I would swim against the current of the world, unseen, under dark water, just below the surface of the light, in that place I came to recognize as my home. I cannot recall all the ones who gained entrance into my young world, so many trespassers disguised as those who loved me. I lost entire years to those night travels, and there was never a moment when I could reach the sunrise untouched or pure. I was a stained glass version of myself cut from crystal, fragile and breakable, a perfect conduit for the light to pass through, on it’s way to somewhere better. Not one of you could see the logic in my decisions. “Why would she, why would she, how could she?” One day my mother asked me in my twenties if I planned to die a drug addict, and I saw my future, hollowed out, creviced, and dark. I decided at last to emerge from that place, but the darkness followed me into the light, like a hungry wolf licking at my heels, and I laughed at you all, in your fickle facades of marriage and children and happy home lives. I clicked my red heels three times in succession and woke up in a wonderland of my own invention. This time it was a choice, I went willingly with those wolves into the darkest of woods to feed their hunger, quench their infinite, injured need for love. I took up the name not easily given, like a wild gypsy sun dancer and claimed that title willingly. One time my father said he never pictured me a thief, he imagined me as a call girl, something others stole or took with or without permission. Maybe he was always right and I just haven’t envisioned that truth yet. Maybe deep down that’s what they all want for us, to please them and make them feel wanted and important. How important are we, showered by eternal white starlight, yet constantly cloaked and veiled to our own inner beauty? Seems like my girlhood conditioned me to be that woman, and that became my name, in a foreign language, Russian for “woman of the wolves.” Or an Indian name given; my indoctrination into an endless world of night, where I am most at home. I learned to master pleasure. I can easily give it, but I never feel it, and pain is so ordinary to me. I laugh at those who feign these games of pleasure & pain, all those who play like children at being on that border, have never truly felt what it is. Let’s go through the motions together. I will take you where you can only dream of being and when you reach that paradise, you will see that I am the Queen. Queen of wolves & shadows. They pass through me easily, and I take them deep inside of me where there is no fear or hurt, to a place where you can master your own shadow. Watch how the wolf enters the girl. becomes her and her him. One could not exist without the other. Give me what you keep hidden from those who fear you most and I will make it my own. Oh what lovely hands you have, the better to unfold me with. Unfold me like a paper swan and write your name on my soul. I’m bad with names. I only remember eyes and limbs, and how skin gets mutilated by sharp claws as they tear you open. I don’t know what it is that gets so numb in me, I only know women make me come alive like a swan on the surface of a pond, gracefully floating beyond, an endless stream of pretty water-lilies and perfumed gardens. There is never a woman whose name I’ve forgotten. Unique & beautiful like flowers, orchid girl, rose lady, tulip child. They make all that is dull and ugly in this world worthwhile. Make me shine my violet femme, my constellation, my flock of doves. Nothing owns me, only you.

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Filed under Abuse, Beauty, Bleed, creative, Journey, Lesbian, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Narrative, poetry, Purity, Sapphic, Sea, Sex, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, writing

Sparrows

Sparrows slowly swoon in sorrowful silence from the south as winds wither the flowers in her mouth.

Time lies slowly dying for those immortal sparrows.

Deep in a grave of  lost love my girl withers also.

Her hands, now bones, no longer able to touch me, flowers fading, kisses gone, bleeding through this living memory, that fades with my ageing body.

But the sparrows remain ceaseless with the passing seasons.

I want to be a vine, be a root, or a branch, that winds through the earth, reaching for her.

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Filed under Alliteration, Bird, Consonance, Death, Eternity, Freedom, Immortal, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Time, writing

Chaos Theory

A voice never to be heard. (things absurd.) The giving up of moments into memories, the sacrifice of self into nothingness, like the self was nothing to begin with, and it wasn’t, it is and it is not dependent on mood. But a mood can create & destroy. What was that they told us? First the thought, then the mood, then the action. But what if I was without thought or feeling? What if I was all id, seething along on impulse, impervious to the outcome, recklessly burning the night alive like a dying star? What if that’s all we are? These cellular beams of nothing, creating self from thought & illusion. The play of existence is transitory, so we can opt to live or die, or merge into another self at random, according to our own will, that gets governed by the heart and guided by the soul, which is immortal. Then this body is a choice and so is yours but are we really free or is that also illusory?  We carry our prisons like luggage or occupations, from one destination to the next, deep in our inner cores, where we fear to tread. Freedom is a state of mind they say, so I can be locked away and still fly, or I can roam forever and never feel alive. It doesn’t matter either way. I dreamt we had a long conversation. I dreamt I heard your voice. I dreamt you meant to tell me something. We had met for the first time in the flesh, and there was nothing to be said that couldn’t be expressed by our bodies, so you said hello with a long and fatal kiss and in that same breath I said goodbye to life and death, I was born in you, anew. Because real love makes us lose our vision and real love makes us see things as they are, in a way we were blind to before. All that pollutes us from the past transmutes into a white light of undying purity in which we create each other, rhythmically like planets, aligned to a divine order, that appears to us as chaos.

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Filed under Beauty, Chaos, creative, dreams, Eternity, Freedom, inspirational, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, poetry, Purity, Soul, Stars, Time, travel, writing

Lost in the memory of another

I never told you I spoke about you from the beginning to any new girl that listened. “She’s an inspiration. Read her. See her magnificence!” “But are you sure she’s only a friend?” They asked as they stood in the shadows on the precipice of what could have been but never was. And I laughed. “She’s a province away and miles out of my league,” and they stared at me perplexed as they crossed their legs and ran a brush through their long hair, combing out the dreams that never materialized, like tangled knots of unfulfilled promise. Until one day you vanished like a star, and I stopped speaking. Until the last girl told me she adopted a dog from your hometown and picked a book off a shelf that you recommended to me. Then I was struck dumb and I walked away and left her with no explanation. “She’s a friend from long ago and far away, ” I said, but my reaction was disproportionate with my words, so that all she heard was that I was a girl, lost in the memory of another.

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Filed under dreams, Infatuation, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Nostalgia, Poem, writing

δεκαοχτώ

An inferno dying out in your mouth of clouds, the sharp hungry bird crying out at dawn, 18 reasons to stay, 18 to leave, dekaocto.

A girl I watch from your balcony;
years of stifled song, and the wrongs spill out in silence as she bends down, her tight shorts cutting into my agony.

Through the doorway where you call to me after such a long drought, you force my hand down and tell me to touch you now, but it feels like mercy, like persuasion not to fly, like I want to die.

I want to die separate from all the things you know of me,  but I cannot because I am a muted bird, and you are blind to this feathery thing in me, which wakes in the night hungry & scorned.

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The Eurasian collared dove (Streptopelia decaocto), most often simply called the collared dove-

The song is a coo-COO-coo, repeated many times. It is phonetically similar to the Greek decaocto (“eighteen”), to which the bird owes its zoological name. It also makes a harsh loud screeching call lasting about two seconds, particularly in flight just before landing. A rough way to describe the screeching sound is a hah-hah.

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Filed under Abuse, Bird, Bondage, Death, Freedom, Greek, Intimacy, Longing, Loss, Love, Poem, poetry, Sex, writing

Barrier

Red tape, white tape, things to break and be bound by. Seal my heart away in a box, in storage where it stays, incapable of remaining any other place, but categorized under things to take out when unpacking, things to decorate this empty space.

There was a turning door that alternated between dark & light, among all the places she led me. I could not follow her in, could not let myself process the shadowy barrier I would never have the chance to cross.

Her mouth was gentle and breakable by invisible kisses, kisses stained black, white, dark, light & beautiful in their pain.

We cannot get beyond the dusty smell of death in all the old places we stay.

I see a flutter of butterflies carrying stars to the river, to drop them deep in the murky silence & the gush of waves.

Some day I will drown in stars.

Some day I’ll rise silver & moonstruck, to hold her in my arms and stay in a place where my heart is still and my body never defies me.

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Filed under Beauty, Death, Displacement, Drowning, Freedom, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Poem, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, writing

Gravity

Can you catch death from an owl, or freedom from a butterfly?

Wisdom & transcendence.

I have walked along the palace walls and witnessed the loneliness of the queen; the things she has seen and been above, and the absence of true love in all the stars we wish upon. Saw princes turn into demons and princesses hide away in dark places, praying to false saviours in the sky.

I have rode trains near ancient remains and felt the sorrow of the broken stone goddesses, who are a testament to the war we wage against all that is different.

I sat with you one winter night and you held my arm tight, trying to catch my pulse. It froze like a piece of glass and lodged into my heart.

Midnight arrives and I skate down the river, to the edge of the city. I stare up at the lights in the sky and wonder if it matters that there’s life on other planets if it’s all the same as this.

When I was twenty I drank a bottle of vodka and disappeared. The truth appeared to be nothing but a blur on the horizon. When I woke up I was sober and nearing forty. I found I had missed nothing. Being awake or asleep, life still carries on in the same way with or without us. We have gravity to blame.

I decided to become an astronaut and float above the world, alone. Out here in the dark no one sees me. I hear the desperate pleas of the lost ones back on earth, crying for something, anything to take it all away. Some pray for little  things; like jobs, children, and marriage. Some pray for bigger things; like freedom, truth and love. Not one of them sees how futile their efforts are. Not one of them cares for the things beyond.

In space you are weightless and mute. You can’t hear the sound of bombs going off in the name of love, because bombs don’t even matter and love is only a word. Nothing can touch you when you are free, not even gravity.

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Filed under Astronaut, creative, Death, Displacement, dreams, Earth, Eternity, Freedom, Gravity, inspirational, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Mortality, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Space, Stars, Time, Tragedy, travel

Moon Break

You told me you love me to the moon and then the moon shattered in three crescent pieces on my floor. (The crimson moon necklace made of clay, you bought me on the island that day.) Where will you love me to now that our moon is broken?

Ovid said that although all things are temporary, nothing perishes. Everything is flowing. It’s sink or swim.

I doubt this was an accident.

I meant to replace the picture I had hung in my kitchen that reads:” those who love passionately teach us how to live.” I was going to hang the calendar you sent me for this new year, the one about unlikely friendships in the animal kingdom, and then smash, down from the nail, like a fallen Christ.

Is there really a Hades? Can we take a boat there? What will Persephone say when she hears the news?

We may never see another spring.

What a tragedy.

And I walked about my small coffin of an apartment repeating “I broke our moon, I broke our moon.” Bury my heart at the Acropolis.

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Filed under creative, Death, Greek, Grief, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Mortality, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, Sun, Time, Tragedy, travel, writing