Thursday, June 22, 2006
Sometimes I forget I'm a poet...
You drowned me there, I say to myself as
I stumble over old photographs.
It's been my life's work,
This endless resurrection and death --
How shall I kill myself today?
Only, please, no more choking on love for Emily.
Emily who is burrowed into my flesh,
Who is consuming my creativity
And rendering me too weak to speak her name.
My muse in her red dress,
A sandalwood prayer to purify my distilling existence.
I've died too many times for Emily,
Bared my throat and drank my poison.
And yet. . .
. . .and yet the scent of her is enough to still my questing hands.
Hands that seek my salvation through destruction.
Her laughing, light touch enough to
Cease the spinning in my head.
She is my stability,
My favorite green-and-white pill
As necessary and deadly as water
to the drowning.