Black ink dries on hard paper,
truth has made me guilty.
Speak softly to me!
A kind message?
Sublingual peace?
Abuse me with gentleness,
please!
Death is not deep.
To be fair,
this blush,
this young sigh,
this surface, it is all false.
Clocks speak with the sun;
patterns that change me.
I am Heaven.
I am Earth.
I whisper ‘farewell’.
I trade it all for instruction,
and the day goes,
consistently, then
brings me back again,
in ruin.
Life and Death. Undivided.
I wish for a different fight.
With fire or the sea,
a fair trade,
both worthy opponents.
I can obey their rules,
succumb to each,
their own authority,
yet, I am not standing inside flames.
I am not drenched in waves of the sea.
I am wrestling with ink,
a low, clear friend,
an enemy I would save,
a hard lover keeping me freely.
I am armed in my own silence,
wrapped in God’s skin,
and the words,
all the incriminating words are
seeping in.
