There are voices, distinct:
how can I possibly trust
my sanity when every word
is yours? Come near me
speckled, sparkling like
blankets of snow on a radiant
night; winter's jewels spread
out like a party. Follow me
and my great crippled heart,
my sad, broken mare, my injured
falcon. There is a cliff, smooth
as tar, eaten away by salt and wind.
Here we'll sit awhile and listen,
maybe you can touch me. The body
remembers a bodies touch, releases,
regains it, releases, regains it.
At some point love feeds upon itself
and is left with nothing but the stars.
1 comment:
Sad and beautiful.
I recall being concerned, many years ago, that I was writing a lot of sad stuff (I still thought I had to please others by having only approved emotions!) - and a wonderful poet and editor I knew said, 'There's nothing wrong with that. Sorrow can be beautiful.' In your case that is certainly so! And if there must be sorrow, as it seems there must in life, then making something beautiful from it is surely a good thing to do ... for many reasons.
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