Artifacts

My thoughts are creepers 

Which grow, leaning against reality,

Watered by the night in all its darkness 

And dewdrops in the form of stars that twinkle:

Cool to the touch, glistening with hope

Wrapping themselves far too tight 

Around me – alive and also not, 

like a goat for sacrifice. 
I blink. 
My hands are free to wander 

Above, around, beneath, below:

Against the grain, and sweat from bodies

From which I pull all of my despair out and hang 

It out to dry in the heat of the sun when 

My thoughts shrink back into their pod

disappear from the recesses of mind 

Like acetone off linoleum.
I inhale. 
My mouth unveils my verses 

And raises the hair on the back of his back 

And my neck to stand in ovation, respecting 

The distance between us, like water on the edge 

Of a waterfall receding – slowly; to the rhythms

Of instruments facing extinction, sacraments

Of single copy smudged by fingers of overuse 

Like the language of love. 
I laugh.
My eyes are suddenly a fertile

Ground for tears, a fabric ripped apart 

From the seams of feeling by the agonies

Of life: such is the story, that if I wove every tear 

In this stained tapestry together, close into 

A circle, and hung it with feathers from 

Birds that sing of murder and sleep

It still wouldn’t catch a dream. 
I turn around. 
I walk away. 

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The Leavers’ Song

I will leave soon 
Like the rustling wind in winter that makes you shiver. You want it gone, but once it passes you will be really cold. 
Put on a jacket. Put on another. 
 

I can’t promise to take away the knives buried in your front. Believe that there are none in your back – I made a shrine out of it (and no one stands armed in places of worship). 
The knives were meant to cut butter. You were soft, despite all the churning. 
Forgive me. 

 
There will be a breeze, perhaps a blizzard, that reminds you of the way my hair flew around, and of the destruction in my eyes. 
The house you build next without me will brave all storms. Make a home in it. 
 

You will remember that you waltzed with the winds as your feet dug into mounds of sand. You will find grains of time trapped between your toes and in the back of your mind. 
Don’t put the ashes of my anamnesis in the river of your sorrow. Build me a grave along the banks, let time bury me as you kill it. 
Walk away from the sea of the dead.
 

I can’t promise to take all your memories of myself along. You will be born again, an infant baptised – always reminded and made aware of the sins you needed to be washed of. 
Rise above the dogma. Become a non-believer.  
Forgive me.
 

I will leave soon  
You will take your heart someplace safer, and let it beat.
I will take what you will never miss – a dine-in bill, a ticket stub, the mark on my shoulder, myself.