Something so assuming – a frame

to bless or condemn,

 neither giving or consuming, the tiny moments of what you are –

they fall around me like summer petals –

to touch, I fear a smear –

 

of the plaits twilight fed through  -

her hair, her eyes – these moments are too soon -

 you die, a breath of first and last –

 hands move across the table,  words warm like liquor -

soft the heart falls and everything with it, so pure.

 

He reminds himself of music,

finds threadbare woes, strung on roads;

fever tracked blaze - sun, dust and moan.

He marries gently, the way she laughs -

soft the rush falls and everything with it, so pure.

 

These words disappear -

the tract of psychosis, my charms are –

nothing pure to exhibit, nothing only yours to kiss,

I fall apart from these things -

a thorn impaled through the night,

 always hungry for a gaze, but wretched for all eyes.

 

I’ll appease, do not bore,

gaze - turn and throw away -

I am lyrical to nothing,

and too much a sore to see.