when edges blur and stretch,
they can transform
into cannibalistic reflections…
for you, this body is yours,
this body is mine,
this body is yours and mine.
I need to feel at home here
along side memories of thorny roses
that prick and infect the system
releasing old poisons.
I need to feel at home
inside this skin machine
languishing next to you
knowing the heat
that rises from our
is a mutual in-service
a restoration, if you will,
of sacred temples re-discovered
in war torn valleys,
shuttered from holy light
battlefields where only the dead
there is a place inside my mind, where winter
never ends, it is ringed with sniper towers,
and barbed wire and the sharp smell of iron
blows endlessly from the east, creating
scintillating sunsets and scandalizing silhouettes
lulling senses with a false security.
I never visit, I don’t call or send flowers
there are no postcards from where I live.
faithless woman that I am
I abandon the invisible winterlands
leaving them isolated, denuded
of my attentions and fresh meat.
When the edges blur, I can spot
that unseeable compound
from my front porch.
back-lit, hazy and glowing from the
forges of the sword-makers that live
in it’s frozen center.
I can tell by the orange blush that rests
lush, ripe with languor hues
along the horizon,
that they have stepped up production
over at the factory, demand is up
and the fresh smell of ancient war
mingles with floating embers of deep magenta
highlighting the past like scars
across an otherwise,
*photo credit: artist currently unknown
*this poem…argh! edited now 47 bagillion times…I sheesh! think I’m done. *
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