Who can help me?
I am trapped within my selves..
Can't find my way out..
I try to stay constant..
Be predictable..
But do not really want to be..
I phase fluidly like the moon..
Sometimes I don't know me..
Who can help me catch me?
I am a collector collecting..
For worse times..
Always..
Time flies by..
And somehow I'm grounded..
But now, on land..
Comes a most explosive smile..
As I burst free on collective flight..
CLOAKED IN BLACK, THE WOMAN STOOD..
AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE WOOD..
HOLDING IN HER HANDS A DOVE..
SHE WALKED ALONG THE TWISTING PATH..
AND HEAVY BRANCHES SHUT THE LIGHT..
LOCKED IN THEIR VORACIOUS GROWTH..
SACRIFICIAL BIRDS HUNG WHITE..
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WOOD..
SHE KILLED THE PALPITATING DOVE..
ITS BLOOD A STAIN UPON HER BREAST..
ITS MOUTH THE AWKWARD MOUTH OF LOVE..
Mmmm..
It isn't magic..
you know..
though it feels like it..
it's only the..
illusion of confidence..
and black leather..
a kiss you want..
only because..
you cannot have it..
Sometimes..
the wanting..
is enough..
it burns bright..
to show you..
your own..
darkness..
I guess that is a kind of..
magic..
after all..
An image..
pale, pale skin..
like death lilies..
or melting wax..
when a candle has burned..
too long..
There..
that pause..
a long dark night..
and once again..
the muse..
a stranger, never recognized..
until..
much later..
I always light candles..
and pray for poetry..
and it always comes..
on the breath..
of a dark prince..
something I forgot..
so I can discover it..
again..
some beauty needs to be forgotten..
There..
the wanting again..
not just for the image..
but for the creation..
that moment of pure elation..
of discovery..
that pale rib..
curved like the moon..
I am wanting..
still waiting..
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