My quill weeps-
Languid, it meanders across this solemn sheet,
suffocated with white, incorrigible, sage-like.
The opaque air is thick and knots in my filament- throat,
this heart, violent, an unrelenting requiem;
the furnace that birthed the phoenix-
my fingers soiled with ashes, the residual colossus,
the drawn veins of azaleas sodden with the ink of dawn;
of a thousand scorched suns-
I am a zygote; rooted in the wilderness of your womb.
You are my mother, my zenith- the moon flowering
incandescent over a field of stars.
Life is an art, like nothing else; a triptych of death-
lost to the tapestry of unrequited self- with no theatrical return, no showing of scars, no one to unravel hand and foot.
Its 4:30am- and,
the universe dissolves iridescent on my heaving tongue, as
my quill etches this requiem for Lady Lazarus.