It might be a page.
Suffocated or torn.
Black boxes indicating stop.
I gather my own white garments against my chest
and picture butterflies falling from the rafters.
Drawn there, speckled.
Catastrophe. What of the orchestra?
Their attempt to blur light
with each vibration,
tongue to reed,
bow to string?
Not forgiven.
But I am careful to say who I am
because I fall too quickly out of mind.
Could I be slipping now.
It's hard to say no.
To bleed,
to come to light.
Said of blood.
Said of moving out,
plentiful flow,
a shape never taken shape.
Suffocated or torn.
Black boxes indicating stop.
I gather my own white garments against my chest
and picture butterflies falling from the rafters.
Drawn there, speckled.
Catastrophe. What of the orchestra?
Their attempt to blur light
with each vibration,
tongue to reed,
bow to string?
Not forgiven.
But I am careful to say who I am
because I fall too quickly out of mind.
Could I be slipping now.
It's hard to say no.
To bleed,
to come to light.
Said of blood.
Said of moving out,
plentiful flow,
a shape never taken shape.
1 comment:
I found your 'tattoo' in Zafusy amazing, particularly how the scene and emotion unfold as you read. Thanks for writing! If you want check out my poetry blog...http://elongatingtrail.blogspot.com/
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