Monday, June 6, 2011

Scythe

fresh vines sprouted from innocent roots
a kind face, a gentle spirit, your warmth
I wanted to hold your hand and sing above the noise
shout over the stagnant affairs of life

but as soon as closeness developed verdant shoots
you cut me deep, quick, pressing in cold
and I had a fear I didn't know I had; grace and poise
forsaken to your hardened knife

I desired only to taste your unforbidden fruits
you, a friend, a lover in my yet unrecovered truth
I suppose I crave you, desiring your sweetened joys
I suppose you saw yourself as this perfect wife

my vows now unspeakable. Silence and time dilutes
eroding memories and possibilities unearthed
but your taste remains on the tip of my soul as fate toys
with my harvested hopes on a rusted scythe