At the bottom right of my heart
a spindle of grief is stuck...
begging forever,
like a flower fouling.
Stuck, the past crimes
breath only
a yarn desperate
& recite themselves desolate.
Because,
there is no mercy of knowledge,
(never Hearing).
There is no mercy of Ever
(never Seeing).
I burn so I can remember
the mark of the 13
touching mine
into reaching
into being held by my own ears.
The salt of those days
pressed
into my heart
in a bathing
that was skin
and a child
and a naked fool
of hoping
that this desire was absolution
and God's desire.
Now, a disciple
of my own listener
and my own salvation
and the fire(when i remember)
those days
is a hot christening
and a ressurection.
dissapointment is hollow and sandy
jagged upon the heart
it feels hateful.
for all that you give
everything curls back
and so how can the heart
not become heavy in it's hollow?
she wants to trace new dawns
breathe upwards
into new cycles
and beyond
and the patterns of yesteryear
still,
like cursing ivy
and looping ends.
