Before the empty box the world made sense
For you and me
An empty box to keep… things… in.
Followed by months of empty words,
Shut out of your head and no,
No communication possible
Only backwards to a past with
No answer to your question.
Then an act of courage/desperation,
You come into the closet and between
A scrap of paper and the pieces of
The blue vase you find the key to
Your little broken soul.
A key, you think, to join it back together,
To bring time to a halt before – …
We needed that empty box.
You try one lock, another, ask
The locksmith, the divorcee,
The horse people, the praying people,
The silent people, so many different people,
With many different truths and many
Different boxes (some full, some empty).
You turn the key in someone else’s lock
To open someone else’s box…
Empty… too much to keep in,
So you shout it out, your rage and hurt,
Finally communicating, sharing, back
Safe with me.
I keep finding keys in the curiousest places now.
I keep them all – in a box without a lock.
And I have started again to believe in –
Maybe not six but… some of those
Impossible things before breakfast.
© jsmorgane (Feb 2012)
I consume people, one after the other.
I run my fingers through their long blond hair,
And dye it black after I have chopped it short.
I let my eyes dwell on their high brow,
And penetrate the Sacred with my gaze.
I dive into blue eyes,
And ripple their clear, still surface.
I outline straight noses,
And expose their striving pride.
I rest my heavy hands against the cheek bones,
And bruise the soft skin.
I kiss your lips,
And bite them bloody to match mine.
I caress your fingers, one by one,
And drain them of their delicate strength.
I draw dark lines in your tender balms,
And read no future.
I tie your long and well-shaped legs,
To stop the carefree gait.
I twist your white neck
Because I cannot bear its beauty.
And when your body opens to my touch
I absorb your essence, lead you out
And ensure your extinction,
Before I move on.
© jsmorgane (winter 2004)
No food, no food,
So hungry, mother.
I know, I know
I’m sorry dear.
Let’s travel down the road
Which road, which road
It’s crumbling, crumbling
Into no man’s land.
What’s no man’s land
What is it father
Where does it lead
This crumbling street
No street, no road
It doesn’t lead to any man
To anyone with any food,
With any work, not anything.
Just anything would do,
I know, just any work,
Just anything to eat,
Just any man, on any street.
On any road
That leads to anything
That leads to any land
Where I can eat.
© jsmorgane (Jan 10) from “War Poems”