my sweet, my songless. my caged bird.
phaedra has strayed from the path of good sense.
i know a place in which there are no questions
no tongues to speak, no eyes to explore
and in its dark centre there is a puzzle that will not be reassembled.
there is a spiderweb stretching from east to west in which i lie
immobile
and knowledge paralysed.
i am the ugly duckling of truth
(read as: i have trouble expressing myself
things i know but cannot prove,
an endless spray of saltwater against the gaping holes in my soulmeetsflesh.)
in order to get an image, you must know sympathy
another way of listening
on the sea, the sea.
in order to listen, we must learn patience.
we ask our questions
and receive no answers.
we grovel like the rest of them.
at times, we all will lose our words.
we fall ill, we choke, we sing with a passion that bursts the very cords from which our voices flow.
and now we are silent.
not as the grave, no, we do not possess the wild voiceless chorus of the dead - only the knowledge that we have lost all our power as those who remain silent survivors.
the feast of bacchus consumes our quiet hearts.
and we will speak again,
in masquerades and alcohol and spindlefingers with red-painted nails.
we will speak again.
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3 1
57 161
26 12 95
49
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phaedra has strayed from the path of morality.
she is of our own kind, without words to accuse,
without even words to forgive.
(iris, we cannot forget. some
questions have no answers.
why do people vanish? the
ultimate silence. we can ask,
can grope for words and find
none. but,
if you silence the voice)
imprison the echoes that ask.
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Comments
--
" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
the past months or so has been so difficult, i haven't been able to write at all. i felt like i was suffocating.
--
30 amnesias; après moi, le déluge. je suis désolé.
--
" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
--
30 amnesias; après moi, le déluge. je suis désolé.
--
" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
a maze with twisting corners
and turns that repeat themselves,
taking you back to the center of the enigma
just as you think you'll get out
but when walls get it the way,
break them down.
there are indeed times when we lose our words-
for me, they usually come when i read your work.
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