Self inflicted humiliation is my default position
But how else am I to be?
When you stand as a brazen visage
Over me.
Not just over my body,
But towering above my eyes, my heart, and my mind
Your legs were like Demeter's
Rich and bountiful white with the harvest.
Your face cut by seraphs out of warm clay.
You asked me to make a fool of myself.
You stand there with innocence from eden.
My hands are toiled and gnarled
Worn to a withered bone.
My soul yearns for innocence-for peace-for eden
But I have been cast out,
Presumably never to return
So I'll just gaze at the flaming of your sword
And the sweat of your brow
The beauty of your womb.
Another will take my imagined place
What you imagine in him I do not know
A man whose mind would darken the eyes of of the birds if it were to be shone forthright
I hope you have a happily ever after.
YOU ARE READING
The Penultimate Pleasures
PoetryA collection of poems meant to embody the ongoing struggle of souls seeking shelter in modernity. (Let me know what you think:)
