A pile of clay held inside my body
forced its way out and
became a living thing.
The opaquesness tested me by removing access to
the clock that ticked without me.
Clairvoyance could not be found within me.
My lips pressed prayers of devotion together and formed a new skin,
laid over the endless softness.
I yearned to wrap her within me
but created instead an cocoon of spit and milk.
The gentle frame that lay upon my beating chest remained
everything I am and not.
A pre-Platonic form I did not know but tried to draw in the dark
cave unlit by the stars.
A shadow of memory that didn't catch but won't be shaken
like
grasping at a spirit looking for flesh.
Then the dressing unravels to reveal pure light undimmed
and sears me in place, stuck
in the heat I walked into.
A brand is found on my heart, tattooed filligrees of symbols,
revealed only in death.
Surrounded by seraphim, this cherub smiles sweetly as she catches
my eye and holds out a doughy hand for me to grasp.
I lie flat on my belly, unable to crawl in my awe
I worship at the altar, shaking all over with no cure.
Who was I to create life.
No comments:
Post a Comment