THE WEAVE:

Vesta files Persephone’s

diary entries, about Pluto,

in the Library…

CONTINUUM

Extract you from the mind.
Surgery, please.
This dull ache that lies

just below the surface,
and when I let go,
an anger.

Why can't I wish you well?
I want you to be well
don't I?

Don't I Love you?
Didn't I?  Did I ever
want you to be well?

Who are you Now?
I don't know.
Some part of me

really wants you
to hurt the Way that I do.
I know that isn't Love.

That is revenge
I don't think I'll ever
have.  The most I could

hope for, is some kind of
acknowledgement
of a Pain, of a Love.

That was really there, once,
wasn't it?  Sometimes,
it's hard to believe

it happened at all,
like picking up a dusty
mirror in an antique store,

and wondering who held it
before you.  She is dead,
and I must die, again,

for the millionth Time.
I must let her die again,
that one who is in Love.

Maybe it is just that
it is the only familiar thing
left to hold on to

-this ache, grown blurry
around the edges.  I fear
another Love as much as

I want it; some kind
of salve for an open wound
that heals every

evening while I sleep,
and opens again, and again,
with the cracking of my eyelids.

Was any of it real?
Now there is Nothing
left to choose.  No cup

of yours to fill.
The Universe keeps
telling me, I made my choice.

If I wanted you,
I fucked it up,
so I must move.

Maybe it's just addiction
to the feeling of being
Loved fully: The devoted

chosen.  One over another.
It is often like that
with you -choosing

one over the other.
So much un-safety
in that kind of union.

Alone Now, as I alWays
was, but sure of it.
For how much longer

I don't know, maybe alWays.

THE THORN AND THE CLOCK-MAKER

You were the bird I fed
in Winter.  Cold, and dark,
and grateful for the warmth.

Now you glow like the Sun,
little finch, splashing in the bath.
You never knock at my window anymore.

I, too, am up to other things.
I have been turning worlds Here.
Calling out, and reaching in,

so deep I found the thorn
stuck in the Wheel- The one
I pulled out of your wing,

and clenched between my teeth
like the pins of the clockwork,
before I dropped it.

It didn't stop the revolutions
right aWay.  The wheel still turned
for a while -like a belly

eaten something, vaguely off.
I had to take everything
apart, you know,

when the gears finally crunched,
to a halt. But I want to give
it back to you, little bird

-The thorn, that's why I'm Here,
you see, at this marbled bath.
For truly I don't feel much

in your Summer song.
It's just that
I prefer the depths:

Those we know by the pain
of the piercing thorn,
and it's quick knowledge.

Those we know by the pleasure
of the turning Wheel
and it's learned workings.

You were the bird I fed
in Winter, before I knew how
my Heart could move, and meet

the many planes in keeping
Time.  And I will Love you,
as I have since you first

tapped on my window, without
this thorn that I took
from your body.

Did you know, little Sun,
that goodbye means,
'GXD be with you'?

“With a thorn in his

dead Heart, and no Way

to jumpstart. He only knows

how to be torn, and only cares

to tear apart.”

-The Oracle of Passeridae