Wednesday, January 03, 2018

Your lust is amusing.
What play-thing have you discovered
to fit the heart-shaped grave that you dug
in precious moments of conviction.

From her hair you weave a crown,
dirt-stained and brittle,
a symbol, you say, of your love.
What a shallow bed you've carved.
It, too, will wash away with the rain.

Long nights await you,
and days that leave you heaving.
Parched,
your words will be like sawdust,
hewn from the spats of a sometimes lover,
that you just can't forget.

This grave site is a sorrow-making place
and you have nested here
(this place you call a home)
to grow old and rot,
beside the heavy idol
of her tomb.

I see through you like the glass
that you are made of.
Pick up your shovel;
You are not done here.

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