Swan Lake

My soft soul is too human
for this animal pain
that rips like a ghost upstairs;
uninvited but present, wafting and cold.

It presses a silk hand over my eyes
and drives a silver knife between my ribs.
It kisses my white lips
and forces its’ breath down my throat.

I can cry and I can fall
but can I love with a heart of glass,
full of shards that find comfort
only when bathed in my blood?

My soft soul is too kind
to this animal pain
that preens like a priest at the altar;
promising redemption and forgiveness.

It folds me inside out
and blows, gentles as a Sunday, on my hair.
It speaks in rich tongues
and the only translation I can find is red on teeth.

I don’t bend and I don’t tremble
but instead, I collapse, with my glass heart
shattered like dew drops
on a spiders’ web.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s