Injecting words into my veins
So I can feel alive again
Give me all your rippling pain
Give me grief
I’ll show the same
Let me feel the dark you hide
When it creeps
From deep inside
Let me see your cracks
Show me all the scars you bear
Share the blackened
Of the heart
You hold to blame
What you cannot stand
Reaching for your hand
My damned heart
Even in stories
To my legs
Pulls me under
This sickly stench
Of iron blood
Makes me retch
Stop the voice
In my fingers
Fill my lungs
Before I call out
Of daydream nightmares
Can you hear
Just my mind
You were never there.
Lovingly she floods frigid skies
In pale whitewash, her reflection
Harmonised by diamond glint
Escaping another fair child
Of her beloved, who chases
Throughout the infinite vastness,
Never close enough to touch her
Fair skin lest he destroy his love.
Meekly, she in retreat holds up
Her silver crown. Coy illusion
Cast, she passes and transparent
Bows, growing weaker as she flees
His sight. Here he in glory is
Born, gilded in fire descending,
Burning the world in his despair.
There he is cast immortal, as
Sculptor’s steel upon the marble
Sets a mark, deep within the heart
Of those whose eyes have looked beyond
The torn veil which masks his spleandour.
Though I still feel everything
Sadly you do not.
“The healing process will take some time.
Take two of these, only when the pain
Grows to be more than you can handle
On your own. It will get easier.”
Flesh, held together by artifice
Begins slowly to knit. Then itching
Starts, and does not care at all to stop.
Memories like scabs, at first are picked
Unconsiously, while itching remains
A constant reminder of the scar
Which has yet to materialise.
The phantom limb pain of your absence,
Which first I masked with pills and whisky,
Anything which would bring me to numb
Oblivion, must be felt in full
If I am to bring myself to health.
Cascading through photographs and words
Which still ring in my ears, an orgy
Of campanologists in full swing,
Though deafening silence remains where
Once I heard your voice so clear and pure;
Is an itch I cannot help but scratch.
If I had held you tighter, would you
Have joined with me completely, then
Perhaps this flesh would still be bonded?
Though undoubtedly you would have pulled,
Struggled free from the intensity
Of my embrace, breaking more than bones
In your flight from my unstoppable
Need for you. Therefore I am grateful
That you chose the scalpel, severing
Arteries as you excised yourself;
Leaving me capable of healing.
I do not want to identify
With the pain, which pulses according
To actions of the day and season,
But yet cannot bring myself to let
The scars heal in full, for the itching
Reminds me how wonderful it felt
To be so loved by you, even if
Only for those long days of summer.