The Promise of Home

I thought I heard the sound of the rain sobbing, in faithful trust I stood to hear the whispers settle in the night;

'This is only a paragraph, darling, written upon a page you can turn, sometimes darkness is other people who fill our lungs with the mist of loss

You can not dedicate yourself to hungering emptiness; this hole in your stomach, not a drop of the ocean will ever be enough for it

But the longing for God is wet upon your tongue, sobering, sobering you for the life that is yet to come.'

In The Ruins

I write to you, may you understand what it is I couldn't, this strangeness of the soul confronts me, like, like a falling about to happen; a violent downfall into the blade of ruins.

At the late discreet hour, my body is a glove of sorrow, heavy in quivering bareness; a bitter piece of flesh & bone sinking in private ruins.

Conceal my soul, abandon me, un-write the very image of self that escapes me; the lost purity my mind can't make up for, the purity I am no good to reach for.

Un-write me as I am;
Growing older
trembling  
trembling 
In the ruins. 

Seasons

& I have loved you in all four seasons

It was summer when sunlit, quiet flowers grew inside my mouth, happiness brought the world to my eager hands and I held you, there.

Then autumn came like every fallen leaf I was forgotten; sour and terrified, my restlessness washed me off, death occupies my life, it is too late for you to come back.

Winter; with daggers of silence that cut me with glimpses of you leaving, I was too much for you, I am too much for you, every night my voice shakes, incomprehensible, beyond the cries.

It is spring and my mother is brushing my hair with her fingers, there is a space where the birds don't sing, a dark space the poems can't reach, I am emptied of you there, I am empty, there.