The promise of betterment, a night owl’s talons drawing blood,
The haze of tomorrow, milky eyes of a predator that slept too little
The haunting in a house of cards, packing vermilion onto dewy cheeks like blush
The mourning for a long lost figure, sailing away on a Phaeacian ship.
What has become of me? Too little, too late
To retrace steps in the mountainside, for the landscape
Is ever changing, and I rarely tread
Through wet concrete. In my head I hear
‘But for you…’
But for you I'd do anything, and did nothing.
The garden of Eden is ever with me, 24 ribs to remind me
Of Adam. Below the green plumage of trees, lone sentinels,
Keepers of secrets and memory (the human kind)
The glaringly evident human kind, lies a scene
Of abundance; sweet figs, skin, love from above - and below.
I sense a withdrawal into the chaste
Evolving, I scrub myself clean of the layers of dirt
That convinced me they are my cocoon
I abandon and not dare look back.
I pass into tender melancholy, sun rays
Pierce me, in my translucence
I hide nothing, from you, from myself
But I would be lying if I said
My heart was not wet concrete,
And you haven’t stepped through it
Like an immortal,
Like God.