Down, down, down
By the river I cast
my shadow, my glance, my face

Wave, after wave, after wave
After every gallant peaceful wave
I see more smoke and pebbles
above my grave

But it doesn’t matter truthfully
what the heavens demand nor
what hell for me awaits

So long as I know
and I know only what we all know
that we are the damned
and damnation is only ours
to take.

With all honesty, I am far more than the cushion of sanctuary you think me to be. I offer no comfort, no warmth. No illusion or sense of belonging. 

I am not a home for you to rest your worries on. I am not the remedy to your depravity. 

I am not your woman. I will never be. I refuse to love and be loved by weak men who want to possess all of me. 

You will always be hungry and I am not the kind who strives to satisfy. So find yourself another lady. One who was never wild.

It’s funny isn’t it?

It’s funny isn’t it?

Or maybe the joke is only for me
that I suppose
the lids that had damned me continuously
will flutter to a close in a heartbeat
(or so perhaps someday
hopefully ¬†when I’m safely tucked
to sleep) never to open, but only
to shadows pin-pricked in
champagne bliss.

Someday perhaps
parting flesh and dimples and moles
and droopy lashes and tacky lines and ghost
Fair pale turning ash, turning cold
turning stone and I’d have to dance
the rest of my gray-scale life
six feet above your cement grove.

Someday perhaps
My saints, my demons, my creaking bones.