It seems I lost you in the storm.
the great cost of my static war.
I wear the bandages of my father's clothes.
You have lost your empathy, it clung
like a pin to your shirt,
the magnet of my open heart,
repulsive.
Sit now, sweet sad one
many men still dream of you.
while my ashen chair sits, an
intrusion to vacancy
You were never the care of a kind
bird,
your curious beak tore nest after nest apart.
Mother stank from the touch of a
curious boy's hand.
She could not be trusted.
A bandaged wing is repulsive,
kitchy kindness derisive.
You flying things all eat worms,
for your hearts are apple.
So, now, red one,
who comes to tell you where I sit?
in this crib of the accused,
Could it be the orphan of some
vagrant star?
from where?
Some pleasant pilgrim with Medusan
hair?
What voice is that which whispers my
terror everywhere?
I grow old from knottings of smoke.
a perfidious nothing from the north on which I
choke
Delicate, in amber, in my fossilizing
vein.
Night is nothing but disunity.
Careful with conscious growings,
hedged into a God
by besotted gardeners, entwined in divine
sod.
Break with a snap, little twig,
the sap vapor smolders in this paralytic
breeze
It has been months since we have
breathed at ease.
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