The Wiltful Hours

The beauty, the perfection

pinnacle

to the touch.

The bosom

of hydrangeas,

her soft cleavage

robust.

How do I

compare to thee?

Such

creature

of lust,

pretty

pleasant

scheduled,

her nature

cannot be rushed.

But oh my will

is moldering,

trapped

in this cylindrical

glass pot,

left over from the funeral…

swimming

in her rot.

Petals

flurry

down

her sleek,

grassy

stalks,

and like brooks

babble on rocks,

snowflakes

on mountain tops,

their infinitesimal

landings,

their tiddly

feelings talk,

drowning in the depths

of this expensive,

posey swamp.

Suffocating,

in this thick heat,

too dangerous--

gasping

to breathe,

can’t let

my

self

drift

uh–

sleep,

creeping voices

begin

to speak…

Think of all

the innocent ways

she skillfully cut

you deep,

like white calla lilies

in a vase

danced on

like all your dreams…

the ivory trumpets

torn to shreds

by twinkling

glass shards,

woven together

with bloody stems,

you place like a crown

upon my head,

force my face

into the fragments,

and tell me to reflect…

all I saw

were tears and blood,

neglecting all my facets.

Diminish

of my visions

gifts-- deplete

my mystic charms,

truly

deeply

ignorant,

a small book

wouldn't do you

no harm.

It’s a surprise

to see

what comes out of you,

what’s in touch

but just

out of reach–

underneath,

the parts of me

with no air

to breathe,

that instinctually

retreat,

in your condescension

your lack

of presence

that I have to daily

grieve…

You loved my mind,

my inquisitive eyes,

the sit

of my spine,

lips

breasts--

softness…

but detest

my sensitivity?

Whatever the hell that fucking means…

it became a game

to watch you try,

pry

then lie,

go off and cry--

when you couldn’t beat

it out of me.

Based on your circus

of regrets,

it’s bountifully

clear,

you made

your bed,

so I’ll shut the fuck up

evaporate instead;

I’m too long of a book

you’d deem

worthy

of being read.

Fleetingly, I come to,

are you just a vivid

muse ?

A humid drawing

on the crystal wall?

A shadow

in the corner

of the room?

A presence, I

I know

never enough,

I’ll never have

enough of you…

for the hostile

years

in my young

life

you recklessly

wafted through.

I can no longer pretend,

confuse

this spore

for a lily pad,

a colorful bouquet

for a few days…

then,

in those wiltful hours,

the flowers

suck

their last

sip

and all my world

is your absence;

and I drink anything,

even that old

bottle of absinthe…

stumble over

grab my guitar,

land safe at the piano

carried by the rapids,

my descension

into madness.

Deeper into the well,

those cavernous

depths

inside

myself,

those blues that lied

buried,

their demons carry me

away…

lay bare my soul to take.

Yet somehow I’m still sitting here

at the bottom of your vase,

savoring your dying drip

gurgling your

taste.