The Rose-Wounds of the Moon

We could hear their voices,

but not their language.

We could see their faces,

but not their expression.

We could taste their rhyme,

but not their reason.

We could feel their absence,

but not our own.

The rose on the floor

of the mind of our loss

began to go into labor,

bringing forth the thorns on the floor

or the loss of our mind,

leaving our opulence

pulmonary and full of petals.

They called out by the

rubbing of cricket's legs,

but I can not raise my voice

to sing with them

anymore.

I can not

raise

my voice

to sing.

There was a time in which we were safe,

There was a time in which we were wolves,

and we could howl

when we couldn't raise our voices to sing.

There was a time in which the rose on the floor

was still regarded as beautiful.

There was a time in which

we felt

SAFE!

We were waiting to be born

from our own punctured wombs,

We were waiting to find ourselves

amongst packs of our own,

We were waiting,

and we have shattered waiting--

Leaving us pulmonary and full of petals.

They called out to us by the

cracking of aging branches,

but I can not sing

with them

anymore.

...JUST AS THE DEAD NEVER WALK,

NOT EVEN IN DEATH,

THE POET NEVER SINGS,

NOT EVEN IN POEMS!

THERE WAS A TIME IN WHICH WE

FELT SAFE,

BONDED TOGETHER

AND HOWLING

at the rose-wounds

of the moon.

Reviews

[ecept]

Hey this is really food, i loved this so emotional and well written.

[nathan]

You have js won yourself a fan. I enjoyed the journey thru the doors imprisoned in time's memory and the symbolism's just sublime.You have js won yourself a fan. I enjoyed the journey thru the doors imprisoned in time's memory and the symbolism's just sublime.