Metaphysical places; mirrored minds; mooring across the broken bird, maybe the Madarasz’s tiger in its mournful lone,
keep the arbored madness
in her untethered womb—swaddle the nest of the tree with aneurysmed red bodies of the moon
salved with fingernail lines on the egg, her baby. The agitation of her veins
makes me ask what images are morose?
I tried to be someone else
but I ain’t the robin in her nest
and I’m not Robin Hood; I grieve, my fingers starve for contact
as I see the roots like the snow sewn in martyred hems of the citrus blood-sun
and yet I still mourn
in the abandoned breast of prose to the
cheep, cheep, cheep
that presses in foreign wounds,
asylumed to the woodlands of
morning flickers with mourning;
oh, mother, I’ve written poetry in blood-flow violently that I wonder who I am;
if I mirror the mirror glass
and nothing is there like the daughter of her fossil father in the umbilicus of the sea, then she is dead nigh her fossiled hand-sewn heartbeat / wedded to a dance. I am nigh the madness, mere man has mind, but I’m not the robin or the bird. Tmesis dispatched, digging the fruit to spoil
and marr the knot upon my fingers
cutting the cracked moonrise.
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Written for the dVerse prompt: Write a poem with a focus on sounds.
I was inspired by “Butterfly” by Weezer and “I Lost Something In The Hills” by Sibylle Baier. I used lines either directly or indirectly from both songs. This poem is centered about being lost and having guilt for the things they have done in the past. A very random stream of consciousness. I might revise this piece.