A Guide to a Stricken Soul

Thoughtless, I 

kiss your fingers and 

That instant, 

Swift as smoke, 

Furry mould and 

Moss-stricken planes 

Cake my moulting soul. 

When will I know? 

When my yellow skin  

Will stop  

Decaying.  

Again and again, we are heart to heart,  

my ear swallows every beat of your  

Thick soliloquies that ooze  

like honey, melts like salt, 

and I almost think it is my fault. 

But still, never was a single word harder to reach 

Than-- 

Know  

That I yield. Fool. 

I try to be 

A melted bug in a casket-case 

Hiding in some ‘In-Between’. 

She moans instead of speaks. 

His white-hot branding gives way to whisper kissing. 

My head hangs limp 

In darkness we delude: this iron turmoil 

Is an alloy shaft, it 

Pierces me as if I were 

An entire heart. 

How do you escape 

The predator of your scarring? It’s 

Him, spearhead jutting strong, as if  

Uncaring of the game it struck. 

Dear, oh dear,  

Bone-sick, Love-dreading, wide-eyed doe. 

In darkened hindsight, rocking to, then fro. 

Try knowing what it is the still-stone moon wants 

When thin, quiet rays reach through, and haunts. 

The white-eye knows all within its realm 

Its dark skin soothing some overwhelm. 

So 

While you’re seeking to be seen, 

The dark night-cyclops will guard your dreams 

And I swear (I swear) we’ll find a way 

To pry my soul far from decay. 

because 

how else  

do you try?