Yes, these are mine. They belong to myself
But not my whole self - for part, you see,
Was too drunk to fly, and in a stupor
Gift-wrapped my heart for a person in need of one.
I packed them all, checked them all,
Threw out the heaviness I wished to leave behind,
The torturous dreams and masochistic hopes,
The unspoken words: I cannot carry them.
No, they have not been out of my sight
Which is more than I can say for perspective
And reason, which I lost in a flood of unreality,
And in search of which I go - there, now, today.
I carry nothing prohibited, nothing dangerous,
Not the arrows of Eros, yanked from my chest,
Nor the poisoned dress that I intended to...
Only the dulled edges of corroded things.
No comments:
Post a Comment