A soul bears no measurable weight,
But elegant movements,
do not equate,
My soul is not graceful,
Swirling through air like winged seeds,
That pirouette so seamlessly,
But rather it is clumsy,
as stiff and restrained
as my awkward mannequin flesh,
that, weaved through collagen fibers,
wears death's name.
My soul lost its footing,
Yanked backwards by abrasive silver rope,
Found me stumbling into myself,
With a sick snap stuttering through my denial,
and a quicksand resistance,
slow, but strong, yet overcome.
There I found the black cord,
and traced it back to paradise.
Bitter pollen aftertaste
lust lingered concealed in alcohol
somewhere north of a Trojan horse,
and south of Eden's evidence,
My body marked those moments,
his skin offering up hormonal sacrament.
I laughed and blamed him for the trail.
He teased, twas but a happy hair.
When he moved past,
the months trailed after,
not wanting to be left behind.
Fecundate whispers multiplied,
marked the calendar in keratin.
was given to rebel weeds,
sprouting in defiance,
sharp exclamations against the barren landscape of skin and heart and air,
like the paper cut garden that overtook the runes,
where his phoenix rose from the ashes,
and our love expired on the pyre,
in the death rattle of falling brick and screeching metal.
The buzzard blade still hesitates
to insult the memory
sung in nostalgic strings of DNA,
surrendering pardon more times than not,
but to salt such holy ground,
would be unthinkable blasphemy.
None but unforgivable hearts
would raise heretical forethought
to erase the testimony proclaiming,
he was here and he has changed me.