I haven't posted here in awhile, but I do appreciate your feedback and hope you will still offer it! I wrote these poems in May, July & August, please tell me what you think.
'A Child of Silk'
In the darkness of this marble room I watch her
Bracelets of shadows upon her wrists,
Her thin arms curling faintly,
as she dances softly in the woods.
This lonely creature who stares at the pear trees
She looks at me—
And I am beckoned to understand her death
She believes I will soothe her while she is lost
She comes to me, giving me her childish hauntings
Her hair maddens, glimmering darkly like the sea
And her eyes of ethereal porcelain,
That are silent even as they burn.
I dare to hold her, and whispers fall into my famished arms
Still her lucid body lies at my side
Her presence aches—
I cannot touch those ivory limbs of silk
My tired hands – look how they shake
I am loving a child in my madness
Clinging to this gentle infection
Her voice flowers warmly in all my gloomy raptures
And it is better to remain in these murky dreams
Where the pain is frail; forbidden
Where her silhouette will not leave my walls, my bed of fever—
Where I weave shadows into gold
'Unpetaling'
He becomes such a cripple when he touches me,
gripping the flimsy cocoon of my body
He foams—
He drips his lies—
I am rooted to him,
a pale flower growing from his yellow fingers
My skin seems to bloom in his hands—
but I am only shedding the silence
An ivory stone in my mouth
I cannot be rid of it
I am his glittering doll,
who he carries to milk-colored rooms
I cradle this poison
As I unpeel his hands, his lips
He speaks to me, polishing those lies
I paint the bed with whispers
My fingers are clusters of blossoms
weaker than my maddened words
I am awaiting the bloom of ice, of winter—
the frailty of my unpetaling
'Flower'
In my dream
His skin was the color of a pale shell’s curl
He seemed to be, dead
He was an apple tree;
a rusted tin man.
It was a strange nocturne—
In my dream
His cinnamon eyes
had lost their gleam,
between murky lids.
My fingers, fair long petals,
moved faintly to his lips
He would not speak to me
So I folded into his silence
And he took me in his lucid arms
He clung to me
And I held him,
with the fragility of sugar.
He was long dead
But I, being the selfish creature I am,
stood in his arms,
a cradle of ivory stone.
I pressed myself into his hard body
He understood I was alone
And we flowered—
in my dream.
