favourite words
Donne had his gold and wombs
And Nabokov his mauve
and Hopkins his living fires,
shining out
like shook foil.
As for me,
the one long left in their dust,
I like chalk. And I like ashes.
Things which cling to skin,
and break in half,
whose texture
makes my palms turn to sweat.
Things which cannot be touched
without a recoil of horror;
which are a lost mark
Or a brand-new trace;
which were once alive
living calcite, and green willow,
now remnant-grey.
Once a fire on a dark night,
now gleaming white,
too bright
for me to see clearly.
Things that are only traces.
Things subjugated, always,
to the master's hand,
to something else holding me -
a will which crushes my own,
as I might ever
bow before them:
A silent one,
who cannot speak,
who might only dream
they ever sang through me -
Who knows how
they tear me in half
with their passions,
So I might birth a new being.
This life lives on
long after me, even if
my bones are chalk
and my skin is ash.
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9rruw0/woodlawn_manor_revised/e8o2lqu/?context=3
Posted Nov 5, 2018, 8:45 PM UTC · edited