The Skin of a Forbidden Fruit

I am writing a poem on a piece of your skin.

Its flesh tastes like the skin

of a forbidden fruit.

I wade through

the mountains and valleys,

holding a detailed map of your body

in my hand.

Someone stole the last remnant

of black stars during the night,

someone stripped silence

of the last thunderous whisper.

Someone is trying to break into

my dream, but I can't straighten my wings,

I can't fly away.

No wonder, because there is no earth

from which I can fly.

In the morning, when your last steps

have faded, I scald my love

with too hot coffee.

Since the last spring of this millennium

has passed, since winter did not kill

so many innocent hearts,

I do not talk to strangers,

I do not impose my opinion on God.

I try to admit my sin, but my free will

prevents me from doing so.

Fed with bread and wine, I die

in a homeless corner, next to sold dreams,

missing stars.

Blinded by the sudden light of the morning,

I greet you goodbye.

Reviews

[M. J. Smith]

For me, this reads as a poem to a lover who has grown cold. Abandoned thus, their is a kind of sad wisdom. We live and learn. The day awaits whether we want it to or not. Of course, I could be wrong.