POEMS: 161109A - November 16th, 2009
Robert Morpheal
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You have made me an exile,
a chronic invalid,
abandoned to a lingering collapse
between a fever and an absence.
I will never be well again,
having lost far too much
in the wound that opens
between dreams and flesh.
If there was a chance meeting for us,
it was something I missed,
being on the wrong side, of the wrong street
always at the wrong time.
I have a listed number
that no one seems to ever find;
and no one ever seems to remember,
the moments I am least able to forget.
Perhaps it never really happened,
and perhaps it never really could,
I was looking for my beautiful lover,
but I only found a symbol made of wood.
It all ends in the flames before it is done,
I was already ashes to your distant touch
for the crime of wanting you,
wanting you so very much.
Everything that burns upon my lips,
reminds me of a forbidden kiss,
as I swallow down my passion’s embers,
into the abyss of a silenced throat.
I would look for you everywhere,
if I thought that it would do me any good,
but if you do not find me where I am,
you know I will die there without you.
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161109B
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I wanted to imagine that you are an angel,
having come to bandage up my body and limbs,
until I can grow my own wings,
out of everything that is broken and maimed.
None of the others really knew
how to be beautiful,
and none of them really cared,
while they ate some more flesh from my bones.
I wish you could make me feel warm again,
putting the pieces back together,
that others have torn away and condemned,
salvaging my discarded fingers with your touch.
Take my broken threads and tie us to each other,
until I feel your body pressed tight against mine.
Make me a prisoner of your flesh,
while you tear away the darkness from my eyes.
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