“but I am wicked”: I tell him and he roars
in laughter, the sky sheds silver lights
and marigolds sweep away the stench
of my embarrassing gait, I see through
the hysterical haze, to miss the worlds
of yesterday, a remiss creeper binding
me into the shrubbery devoid of sight.
to be able to speak or to be mum, to
file a memory into my eyes like a rich
embroidery woven, or to defile desires
that have a demurring allure to them,
I, he can not feel my pulse, metrical to
the sound of his voice, I repulse him
by the veracity of this hollow heart.
he is the me of days gone, yet to come.
*For With Real Toads.
Image source (“The Good Fight” by Scott Saw)
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