Tuesday, September 3, 2013



Her flesh burns, and she despairs at this dependency.
Caught between terrene and
                                                                                          it is
only with eyes shut,
that she knows what she wants,
wide awake,
relentless fist of guilt is stalking.

Fenced in by so many false promises and blocked from light, she is yielding

The primal earth beneath her feet of clay both welcomes and reminds.

If only she could bring herself to say his name.


He is close.

       She feels him in the
       sway of ghost like gusting wind,
                              and in the feather
soft seconds of silence she
comes to,
harlot, scarlet heart
pounding out words
                 later forgotten.

She arches like a cat under the stroke of sharpened senses,
                                                       keeps time by the inhalation
                              that somehow
filters out the train
           of lower thought.

She thinks
his nostrils flare,
and she
lowers prostrate,
tries to
swallow back the gushing
    and the bitter taste of shame that prickles backside of her tongue.

When quiet
the pieces pierce
    and the fierce concreteness of
where she's always been
out in triumph.

If she could
but gather these fragments,
and present
            them as an offering
she would hear him
say her name.

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