~Letters from the Monastery of My Heart: II~
~there are times you wake up~
~when you haven’t yet been to sleep~
~lost to the moon’s dictation as tides~
~murder in your blood~
~riding the storm~
~the bad sister’s face in the mirror won’t drop~
~Tempered By the Woman Without~
Memories call my attention to the moon. Reluctant to follow my heart so recently exiled to the roam, I stare at a single blind window facing east, imagine mad dogs in the yard, consider the other portal door, icicles’ frigid need to pierce my feet in the night.
My heart is a lonely wanderer. It listens to the howling voice of winter wind threatening to enter the room. It was cold the day I left her in the tiny city of the owls. Wisdom has bitten my love dreams in half. I am lost in a labyrinth of pain.
The teacher warned her students, “Beware that your noodle poems do not bite you.” She knew a man who drowned in the soup of himself. Photographs are mind whips to the lonely, reminders of that other reality. I have gathered my tablets in piles, an impenetrable wall of words.
Digging through papers, a card fell in my lap. It was a note from my mother begging forgiveness and too late now. I speak desperately to her box of ashes. Is it shameful for a man to weep? There are seven levels of revenge the winds of time disregard.
There’s the moon I shared with her. It captures my eyes, draws them through a wintry haze of clouds. I have stood too long in the yard trapped ‘neath this masque of ice. Where have they taken my princess, the lightning of our desire.
When eyes close and hands reach, what nimble creatures of habit they are, open on empty and holding without. Their disappointment is a near-step to misery. They torture the mind that made them so. A spirit of darkness invades and slips away with our dreams.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~there are times you wake up~
~when you haven’t yet been to sleep~
~lost to the moon’s dictation as tides~
~murder in your blood~
~riding the storm~
~the bad sister’s face in the mirror won’t drop~
~Tempered By the Woman Without~
Memories call my attention to the moon. Reluctant to follow my heart so recently exiled to the roam, I stare at a single blind window facing east, imagine mad dogs in the yard, consider the other portal door, icicles’ frigid need to pierce my feet in the night.
My heart is a lonely wanderer. It listens to the howling voice of winter wind threatening to enter the room. It was cold the day I left her in the tiny city of the owls. Wisdom has bitten my love dreams in half. I am lost in a labyrinth of pain.
The teacher warned her students, “Beware that your noodle poems do not bite you.” She knew a man who drowned in the soup of himself. Photographs are mind whips to the lonely, reminders of that other reality. I have gathered my tablets in piles, an impenetrable wall of words.
Digging through papers, a card fell in my lap. It was a note from my mother begging forgiveness and too late now. I speak desperately to her box of ashes. Is it shameful for a man to weep? There are seven levels of revenge the winds of time disregard.
There’s the moon I shared with her. It captures my eyes, draws them through a wintry haze of clouds. I have stood too long in the yard trapped ‘neath this masque of ice. Where have they taken my princess, the lightning of our desire.
When eyes close and hands reach, what nimble creatures of habit they are, open on empty and holding without. Their disappointment is a near-step to misery. They torture the mind that made them so. A spirit of darkness invades and slips away with our dreams.
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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