mapping the continents of my emotional dementia
without mentioning
its vast sweeps
time
fits me
to
what
I weep for
when I
pick locks
that
are
inside
me
it
is as if my eyes
have
become useless sockets
in
the turn paper blades
of reaching into
sulfur oxidized pockets
the
pan-caked make-up
rust pats itself
in
my clumsy Braille
painting
fumbled desires
as if it were as simple
as hailing a cab
at closing time
the
dead stars
and their red bursts
are
old burns
against
the yellow altar
of
night beyond the black
even
the
underworld
Demeter
sometimes
does
not want me
with
bones for eyes
and
tight fingers
clenching
my soul
wrapped
in chains
growing
weary
and
oh, so quickly
a
very, very old
EJR
©
self pity or whipping?...awww...good you say 'sometimes'...but your reader likes you, inspired by your images, waiting for new poem....
ReplyDeletethanks