Member-only story
Cicatrix
The corpses
Of once roses amaranthine,
The formulaic divorces
Of your fleshes from mine
Sewed my mind’s pockets
With slow-murmured thunders;
There — jagged sprockets
Chewed darkness asunder.
Your phrases
In no elegant inked font,
Handpicked in phases
(Sonnet threads pulled gaunt)
Must have slept mean
Previous nights in the lab:
Uneasy for you to wean
To pick so well at my scab.
You riddlers
Who promised peace and mirth
Were manipulative fiddlers
Of abandoned things. Could earth,
a survivor, feel my decline?
Surely at times she feels not worthy
But still supplies to the vines;
So, somewhere had to be my mercy.
Those facets
Of well-being-unresuscitated
Separated me in brackets.
Salted sorrowfalls detonated
When I reached out to you
And gripped scattered air;
From the reflex root,
We had not what mattered there.
