I’ve lost all sweetness
that used to drip
off my tongue,
and you harbor
a hive of ghosts
of my wrongs.
I can’t see my way out of this,
when they’ve come out
of your mouth like fog.
So, I am lost,
oceanside
of us,
the sky a darkening bruise,
no astrolabe,
no lighthouse,
to the spent-match orb
you call
your heart.
Since I, somewhat jokingly, challenged Shay to write a poem about something she claimed she had nothing to say about (astrolabes), I felt it was only fair if I do it, too.
Her poem, which of course smokes anything out there because she’s just that good, can be found here.
Ah, you took on your own challenge! I like it all, but especially that final tercet. Spent-match orb indeed; a faux star no brighter than the time it takes for it to go out.
ReplyDeleteLove torn and haunting. Beautiful writing, I love “all sweetness that used to drip”. I like to think that you’ve always been my mid-day sun or northern star at night that have helped me chart this life of degrees above the horizon.
ReplyDeleteGod! This one is a fog of dense wrenching darkness! (Rajesh)
ReplyDelete