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Literature Text
I lost the map to your body long ago;
tonight the stars will be my guide,
my compass to this body once familiar
and numbered among the dearest of lost things.
You are a journey to remembering;
your neck to a moment bent over food,
your hips to motions against the sea,
your hands to early mornings and the scent of tea.
All these hint of you,
to a season of fruit and youthfulness,
when joy was a thing we didn't know we had.
Time is playing tricks;
I once knew your every valley,
your mountains once home to my song,
a place of heat and constant motion.
Why do I expect for time to have stood still for you?
The boundaries of your body have shifted;
there are grooves to a life unknown, well lived,
of sorrows and happiness imprinted on flesh,
of a slowing, a patience harnessed with years.
There is much to discover,
and time cannot be counted upon for much anymore.
But still there is no rush;
I will read between your lines for an answer,
finger them as the lines on a map,
invent a forgotten country and rewrite its history because
I lost the map to your body long ago
and tonight we have only the stars.
tonight the stars will be my guide,
my compass to this body once familiar
and numbered among the dearest of lost things.
You are a journey to remembering;
your neck to a moment bent over food,
your hips to motions against the sea,
your hands to early mornings and the scent of tea.
All these hint of you,
to a season of fruit and youthfulness,
when joy was a thing we didn't know we had.
Time is playing tricks;
I once knew your every valley,
your mountains once home to my song,
a place of heat and constant motion.
Why do I expect for time to have stood still for you?
The boundaries of your body have shifted;
there are grooves to a life unknown, well lived,
of sorrows and happiness imprinted on flesh,
of a slowing, a patience harnessed with years.
There is much to discover,
and time cannot be counted upon for much anymore.
But still there is no rush;
I will read between your lines for an answer,
finger them as the lines on a map,
invent a forgotten country and rewrite its history because
I lost the map to your body long ago
and tonight we have only the stars.
Literature
Heart-boats
Give me a song, worth singing from the heights of a clifftop,
over to calm the raging seas,
a pinnacle point, to quash the rage of the oceans.
Come to my side, in the pouring rain and howling wind.
Let the squall lash your dark hair across your pale face,
turn your seagreen eyes unto mine night sky blue's.
Here layeth the raging storms of torrential emotion,
which poured forth from a broken, bruiséd and shattered heart.
Here you sung to the storms, though they railed against you,
your steady, confident gentleness soothed the wrath away.
Now together, within my walls we sit and confide in each other,
share long passed secrets
Literature
What the Body Means
What the Body Means
He seems a creature
bent to half height,
the likeness of a burden
roughed out in oils
honey-gold and hung
between rising and falling
as he makes a seat untaken
atop the red along the curb
his twice-jacketed arms
pushing palms against eyes
cast by glare into retreat.
In the bite of early sunshine
he seems to doze
proof of what the body means.
Literature
Pain
Hangs from your spine
like an incomplete, conjoined sibling
with no mind of its own
but enough of yours to make you fear it.
Comes when you are sleeping
to perch on your face and dip its beak
redly into your dreams.
Shucks its claws
on the upholstery of your flesh.
Is a fog-eyed poet, reading aloud to you
endless reams of his own passionate,
excruciating verse.
Squats in the waste it has made of you,
a basilisk-child
you dare not look in the eye.
Remembers the body when it moved
with the ease of light across a lakes delicate skin.
Watches your babies grow
skins so thick they cant feel you.
Is an illusion
overcome
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Comments26
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really really beautiful.
wow.
wow.