02/04/2018
10:32 PM
If the rose's thorns prick
and blood came streaming down the river
I want you to remember me
And come back at the usual time
Whereas I will not be idled:
you will be warmly welcomed at once
by the same arms that wrapped around that tree
of surreal vacancy
You will be looked at by the same eyes
that cast the darkness to shame
The paintings will glimmer again
The flames of promises rekindled
The statues, albeit no more
will be rebuilt
You will be exalted
We will roam around those halls
and stride through each room; hands held to each other
Until tomorrow is only a tick away—
I will wait somehow.
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoetryI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
