Onto Martyred Parchment

We were held (like this)

by invisible strings tied to invisible wrists,

so that when we

shook,

we shook

the same.

Strung up like marionettes to one another's previous lives,

The past called and was shaking from withdrawals,

cooing in our ears like a phone sex operator,

begging us to spend the night.

She kept us awake,

coughing up blood

and tossing her body

like a knife.

Strung up like marionettes,

we were held (like this,)

so that when we

dance,

we dance

the same.

The past called and our graphite scars activated the blank spots 

of our bodies

like the blank spots

of our pages,

and our skin stung with Iodine.

Does old furniture have ghosts?

Inanimate objects begging us

to feel,

fishlines of intimacy begging us

to dance,

strung up by our invisible strings on our invisible wrists,

so that when we bleed

(onto martyred parchment,)

we bleed

the same.

A poet cannot be a poet

if the poet

is in love.

Author's Note

unfinished

Reviews

[Eagle Cruagh]

I have no idea what this poem was about, but
I sense it`s majesty. It has a regal touch.
Your verbage is spectacular and you obviously
are a gifted poet.
Now to check you out for other writing.
------ Eagle Cruagh