Cold flutter of responses scathing steel.

This is the free verse digesting knobs; intimacy of clouds consuming frequency within hands...

And fallacy of lovers raining a charade of passions out to a fire chiseling scorns…

 

Swollen hearted.

 

I made bread with my soul worn inside and out…

I  hurt like you; still we feed.

I wore my Love well... I fed my Lover well, the transgressions in the demeanor of a man after the wolf...My wise one.

The truth is that he remembers integrous beast do not meddle in the woods for the salvation of flocks.

A faceted glimmer in a tear while weeping for the intangible swindling beneath garments something that truly pronunciates nouns and roots.

The ironic ambiguity of something spilled in confinement…free to fly suddenly.

From torments that within even the deepest they see it glow.

 

Languid within torso.

Is a wave of things.

 

I do not know what to write other than that.

Only to make sense to the rhythm.

The slightly offbeat hum of a crying woman whose gestures translate…

 

I wanted to tell you how loved you are.

 

In charcoal and grime.

Holy water and earth.

Sea and bread.

Furnace and heart.

Soul and hearth…

My most livid cloud.

My lone wolf.

You are a man.

My carnage of sun.

My full moon who wanes.

Pure and impure.

Flesh and bone.

Unloved and loved.

She reminds him of this…

 

So, their souls play music.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata