A Letter

I don’t really know you
 shame blossoms around me
I am unable to forgive
or
 give you the years lost.

A Memoir of Hurt

A woman makes her way across the divide
in the valley of memory,
Dark bats fly out of the corners of her eyes.
Pain remains dripping from the door of
the past she has just closed.
She’s not forgotten the way she felt
nor what fears have lurked and led her to this.
How does one describe it?
Those nightmares that come at sunrise.

The grain has been scattered.
Pour the brine and the salt on the land.
Next season will bring its emotional toil, and we will harvest.
A long time away from now, she may
become corrupted
become blind
fall in love.

She cleaves way the silence
That once made the summer so cold.
The hum of loneliness
That grows past every great hurt
and makes her swallow her childhood.
Unfolding and becoming
the life that escapes the whisper
and reliving
the thoughts that mold for days.

When I write poetry, every word is new prediction
from the tip of my tongue
to the tip of my pen,
I anticipate and trust in the 
revelation.

my art arrives in bandages.
standing red,
reddened with the color of
cathartic chaos
mixed media on paper,
art anesthetic administered
by the pen.
Into the conscious stream, the
inexhaustible intrigue, the
balm to bind the wounds,
the brute blackness about us.
My eyes are filled,
dark tears of you,
of me, my soul,
oblique.

I need your soul,
to speak to me
in the ways that we used to speak
when
in the heat of a summer’s day,
time
would meander
and the sky
would hold our dreams
confidently,
in the clouds.

on a path to self-destruct,
in a comfortless
void.

your pain is
sightless, soundless, gamma

the unseen undercurrent
of your
voice.

i saw a moth
on the wall
sitting
upside down
looking
        lost

a distant prayer
approaches
like a smile,
inching across
the pebbles beneath my lips.

contemplating your thoughts
and the
arc of your cheekbones
how many
years have passed?

your body is a
sacred sanctuary.
desecration
has made your pain ivory
the smell of your
skin is
brokenhearted
and you sit
on the altar
of loss.

my itching heart.
my darkening soul.

Being in my room alone is like an addiction.

Do you love me now?

abstractions are like a balm made of emotions and dreams.