For Pain I Die

 

Your lullabies sing

of how New Moon night is that of poets.

When a fortnight full of eulogies and prose

on craters, the crescent, stolen light,

tidal waves, and the face of a beloved,

black, from ink and pain

wraps itself ceaselessly around our moon,

The Poet makes darkness her mistress.

 

So I wake up dangerous, humming hymns

of how each time a newly broken writes of the sunset

his poetry is wrung out of every crumpled sheet

and dripped down at twilight

until his romance drowns his muse completely.

 

Your letters read

of how caramel cobwebs form underneath

the tongues of those who cannot express love.

That the dry and sour in their mouths is

in fact only the aftertaste that sugar left behind

leaves behind as it melts into acidic

oblivion and that pungency slithers down their throats

if they are mouthed love for long enough.

 

So I emerge fearless, embracing the shy

while the honey they were afraid had rotten bitter

pools on top of my collarbones and spills as

I move, drenching me in glaze

until the sweet, divine nectar drowns me completely.

 

Agony,

your whispers speak

of how you are of too much essence to me,

so I chant cries into canticles, while scraping

every destructible part of myself with the ends of flowers

you pluck obliquely, and write with blood about

the colour of wine roses

until all that is left of me –

is poetry.

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