Every Page

I let the beast tear to shreds
the sheets of pure white on my bed.
The snow fell in tangent
and spilled through the attic
and froze like soft beads on my head.
And I dreamed that there were ghosts in his eyes
as conspicuous as the sun in rainy skies.
And they haunted some shadow
that filled the well until overflown
and the rims of his lids swelled as he cried.

I stole a glance from my book,
and pondered some thought that he took.
I forget what I knew
and forsake lowering my view,
I’m stolen by that sweet, broken look.
And I watched the sun flicker out
and the butterflies flittered around,
before a fleet to the sky
to become the stars in his eyes
with wings beating soft without sound.

And I saw a harp by the place
where the fire burned bright and erased
the things he threw in,
every nightmare, every dream,
every part of his past, every page.

Woven Tapestry

What tapestry on some crumbling wall
had that sad misfortune
to steal its threads from my repertoire
and weave into unsatisfaction.
And spill upon it blood and ink
of those that I’d forgotten,
and wipe away what stains I left
when I had still been broken?

And why should seamstress continue working
on an artwork solely done
and forsake that which she reprimanded herself
to walk dark the side of sun.
And weave ribbons of silver
into her once youthful hair,
why should she scar every finger
with needles that don’t care?

And then pass blind to some weak soul
as if I had some clue
how to rescue my small part of this world
with needle, thread, and rue.
And use that which enslaves my tender
heart beneath a womb
to believe that this sweet tapestry sanctuary
will someday become my tomb.

And the sun stops tanning pale, burned shoulders
and my face so gray beneath,
I fear that I shall meet this woman,
as sparsely as I believe.
And should I have that audacity
to believe that I cannot serve;
well what course shall Karma serve to me?
Something less than I deserve.

And should I stop weaving, stop spilling blood and ink
and erasing my own stains,
surely the beasts of otherworldly hells
will shoot poison through my veins.
But I have aged, as others in youth
have never in their time.
I’ve no ill will, no broken past,
so I replace those pains for mine.

I reweave every strand of hope,
recleanse every heart,
but when did I become this guardian
that is tearing me apart?

Burning the Shards

I swore,
beyond my hastened, stoic belief–
bereft that I might stand some motive
to mirror that girl I see in the glass
of silver, that she might someday be me.

I promised
that I would shatter every last piece
of every past insecurity,
that had stolen some sweet identity
that cursed ill into my name.

And I knew,
beyond doubt, or power too strong,
that I would not shatter my life.
The moments captured beneath glass and bone,
the scars I etched into piece of stone,
the names I carved, that guilt I own
that she is who I cannot be.

I swore,
that I would burn every last shard
silver, golden, or intangible.
That I would sever every stitch
that held me too close
to the things that I wish
I had never known.
Once, I was ignorant–and pure.

I promised,
that I could let it go.
That I could watch the flames and smile;
that this would disappear,
that nothing would remain of me
before him.
But everything remains.
It is who I am.

And I cannot vow
or tell tale true;
I’ll pretend I never knew.
As if, I never once stopped to care,
but that treacherous book of words
is still there
and as much as I do not want it to be,
those words were once what defined me.

He was not my life.
Once.