i'm gestating a bitter seed.
and in these tepid waters there will be no flowers.
no springtide.
for i am an ill starred thing.
in dreams, i reach a swollen hand to your face, my delicate joints pleading with your skin.
i beg you forgive the tremors of the leper before you,
the way its dirty fingernails leech warmth from your veins.
allow this cursed thing its repentance.
you saw beauty in it once.
i lick my lips to show you they can still shine
i seek charity in your arms, praying that my cold frame will soak up some sort of divine appeal.
i heave dry tears,
just salt to flavour my pallid flesh.
i worship in vain.
have you no love for the damned?
like daphne's branches stretching beyond the river bank, your tendrils bloom from my throat.
ejecta
holding my tongue from spreading its herecy
from finding comfort in some other mouth
now my body's calls for you are skylarks stolen from the air, shot down from heaven
its cries are fruitless, words devoid of sound
all that can be heard is the wind's lament
as its winged child plummets back to earth.
i wake before it hits the ground.
YOU ARE READING
weeds.
Poetrysometimes you need to return to the soil to feel the triumph of what once grew.
